True Faith
by DemonessKage
Summary: Draco's attempted suicide brings about many things- some good, some bad, and some very bad. He's forced to see the world in a different way, and to try to cope with what he sees while finding himself completely unprepared to deal with the full scope of hi
1. Default Chapter

Title: True Faith (01/??)  
Author: Nicky Townsend (nicky@sacramentoanime.com)   
Pairings: HP/DM  
Rating/Warnings: I'm going to say R with leanings towards NC-17. Rating for sexual situations, attempted suicide, and (with the suicide attempt only) a great deal of romanticizing about blood and death. The sort of thing that inspires bad Goth poetry, I'm afraid. Oh- if you haven't noticed, this is SLASH. If you aren't here for young, hot boy-on-boy action, I suggest you run while you still can. Flames will be saved to light my cigarettes.   
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. All songs quoted are the property of the various artists that wrote them, and are used without permission. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All music quoted is the property of those with the talent to write it; which wouldn't be me.   
Summary: Draco's attempted suicide brings about many things- some good, some bad, and some very bad. He's forced to see the world in a different way, and to try to cope with what he sees.

True Faith 01  
~*~*~*~  
"When I was a very small boy,  
Very small boys talked to me,  
Now that we've grown up together,  
They're afraid of what they see  
That's the price that we all pay  
Our valued destiny comes to nothing  
I can't tell you where we're going  
I guess there's just no way of knowing

~"True Faith"  
-New Order   
~*~*~*~

If someone had told him previously, he wouldn't have believed that it was possible to weep for so long and so hard that it gave a person a migraine. He knew his pale skin was blotchy and his eyes swollen, his hair mused and tangled. He probably hardly resembled his old self at all. 

What had started as a small stab in his temples had escalated to a scale that was heretofore immeasurable. The more he wept, the further it spread until the entirety of his skull was awash in pain was so acute that even his teeth ached- This must have been how it had felt for Zeus when Athena had sprung full-grown from his skull. It certainly felt as though a fully-grown, armor-clad and spear-wielding woman was attempting to force her way out of his cranium. 

He'd always heard that crying was supposed to make you feel better, a way to release all the bottled-up emotions. Siphoning off all the emotion he'd been restraining should have felicitated a sense of catharsis. Instead, a sense of emptiness had engulfed his chest that was so profound he wondered if he were to slice through the skin and thin layer of fat on his belly, would he find himself hollow beneath, and that his bones were indeed only a frame on which his skin were stretched? 

In his grief-stricken wandering, he'd somehow managed to get lost in the castle, though he'd thought surely that he had known every corner of it by now. His limbs felt heavy and trembled in weakness, his balance dissolved with the lack of care he put in each weighted step. His shoulder collided heavily with thick granite, turning, and he slid down to the floor, his back scraping painfully on the rough-hewn blocks of the castle walls. He fell into a sitting position, between the stands of dark-polished wood for two gleaming suits of armor; it gave him the suggestion of having procured some private niche for his solitary drama. He felt locked in his own body- it seemed heavy and foreign, as though it belonged to someone else. He wondered distractedly if this was what Imperius felt like.

He wanted to be free of this burden- the burden of being himself. He wanted to the take back all the choices he'd made, and couldn't undo, the horrible things he'd said to a myriad of people. He wanted to erase his past self's blindness to the manipulation of others, and the revolting eagerness with which he had done everything they had asked of him. He wanted to remove the sense of all encompassing horror he'd suffered when he realized what his manipulators were really like. He had so many regrets. 

Clumsily, he fished the knife out of his pocket. It was a beautiful thing, about six inches when it was unfolded. Its' handle was constructed of shiny black ebony, inlaid with silver, and was carved perfectly to fit in the wielder's palm. The blade gleamed brightly in the small amount of starlight filtering in through the castle's high, thick paned windows. He sat for a long time, one leg drawn up to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him, one arm resting at the elbow over the raised knee.

The first light of dawn was struggling to banish the gloom permeating the deserted hallways. Floor tiles began to reflect the growing light, and dust motes swirled sparkling like glitter in new sun's glory. Had that much time truly elapsed as he drifted slowly in the cold fog of despair? The unfolded blade caught the light more vividly, the light's brightness and purity reminding him of why he held it. With a calm born of emptiness and endless regrets, the pain in his head forgotten, he drew the blade lightly over his thumb. It parted flesh as though it were insubstantial, bright crimson blood welling instantly, a single drop falling forgotten to cold tile below. Satisfied with the results he carefully, delicately, brought the blade to butter-soft flesh of his wrist. 

Smoothly, deliciously, the blade bit deep into the soft flesh of his inner arm, the edge so sharp he hardly felt it, drawing a neon-bright red line from wrist to elbow. He watched, entranced, as sunlight reflected off the ruby liquid spilling, coursing in rivulets down the alabaster-pale flesh of his arm. Before his strength could wane any further, he switched hands and repeated the ritual on his other forearm. His lifeblood now flowed unchecked onto the smooth cold tile, pooling around him like some kind demented halo. He was fascinated that something of such a lovely color had flowed from his own poisoned veins. He'd thought his blood would be black; so much hate had touched him throughout his short life. He knew that blackness still stained his soul, even if it could not be seen. He closed his eyes, content at last, the only truth he was certain of ringing like polished bells in his clouding mind: 

Death is easy. 

~*~*~*~

Harry Potter woke early, far earlier then he would have liked, to the vague sense that something was out of place. His stomach twisted in knots- he hadn't eaten last night. He'd forgotten all about dinner, caught up as he was in his feverish revising for the one of the most dreaded tests he could remember- His mock-NEWT in Potions. 

Dressing quickly, he made a resolution to go raid the castle's kitchen. Breakfast would not be served in the Great Hall for a good two hours yet, but he knew the house elves would be awake, already preparing for the momentous task of feeding the castle's several hundred residents. He pulled on a soft cream-colored turtleneck and covered that with a thick jumper, before wrapping himself in his heaviest winter cloak. January had crashed down on the castle, even colder than December had ever dreamed of being. The castle's hallways acted as refrigerators, and if it were possible, it was even colder inside then out.

He slipped silently through the dimly lit common room, and out through the portrait hole, into the rabbit warren that was Hogwarts' corridors and passages. He observed briefly the position of the sun over the Forbidden Forest, judging the time to be about 5:30 AM. 

Last summer had finally given Harry the growth spurt he'd been waiting so patiently for- in the few short months of the Summer Holidays, he'd grown to be only four centimeters shorter then Ron. The sudden height increase had only given Aunt Petunia more reason to shout at him- they could no longer give him Dudley's old clothes as hand-me-downs. Three of Harry would easily fit in one pair of Dudley's trousers, and so his Aunt had been forced to actually purchase clothing for him. She had dragged him into a charity store, all the while gnashing her teeth and swearing that he would work off every pence.

In spite of the need for new clothing, he hadn't realized just how much he had changed until it had come time to meet up with Ron and Hermione on Platform Nine and Three Quarters for the Hogwarts Express. At first, Hermione hadn't recognized him- the warm glow of feminine appreciation had quickly been squelched by a delighted gasp when she saw the tell-tale scar on his forehead, recognition suddenly dawning. The entire Weasley clan had taken the liberty of exclaiming over him at that point. Attention he was used to- he didn't like it, but he was used to it. THIS kind of attention had been wonderful, and for the first time ever, he'd felt almost comfortable in his own skin. 

They secured an empty compartment for themselves, and attempted to catch up on anything that had happened during the summer. Harry was not surprised to find out that the two of them had spent the summer at number Twelve Grimmauld Place, surrounded by a flurry of activity, while he was again stuck at the Dursleys, doing chores. 

He also noticed the glances his two friends were casting at each other- these looks had changed in quality quite significantly. Last year they had been carefully guarded expressions with huge gaps expressing the worry they shared over him. Obviously their mutual worry had changed into something more personal and warm over the summer.

Harry could not help but feel resentful, though he was also happy for them. His resentment had nothing to do with the fact that they obviously loved each other; Harry had known that for ages. The problem was that they were free to love as they willed, and had only the usual sort of secrets to keep, and the usual sort of worries to be worried about. Harry envied them the simplicity of their lives, though he doubted they would understand should he try to explain it to them. Perhaps Hermione could, but Ron would never. 

And so, he'd pasted a smile on his face as he listened to them go on about their summer, loving and hating them at the same time, wondering vaguely why the train was so quiet. Comparatively speaking, of course.

Now that he thought about it, it was with almost religious regularity that Draco Malfoy had come to their compartment and attempted to hex at least one of them into non-existence. It had happened on the train every year so far. This time, the trip to Hogwarts had been uneventful. 

He navigated the hallways unconsciously, with ability born of much practice, so lost in his thoughts he hardly saw the hallways change under his feet. Honestly, no one had seen much of Draco Malfoy; he was quiet during the single class they still had together, and notably absent during nearly every meal. In that arena, silence had reigned since the beginning of the school year some five months prior.

His boot slipped abruptly on a patch of wet floor, unceremoniously yanking him out of his random thought patterns. The hem of his cloak brushed the top of the dark liquid, drawing patterns on its shiny surface. Not certain at all of what it was, Harry touched a fingertip to the random puddle. Crimson- his fingers were stained crimson. Idly, he rubbed his index finger against his thumb, and watched the liquid smear like wet paint. It was still warm. Fear turning sickening circles in his stomach; his eyes followed the dark pool to its source. Lodged almost comfortably between two suits of armor sat Draco Malfoy himself, deathly pale, smiling contently. He resembled himself hardly at all; his hair was a complete disaster, stringy and tangled. His skin was as blotchy as significant blood-loss would allow, his eyes still swollen from what appeared to be hours of weeping. Deep, dark yellowish-blue bruises marred the delicate skin under his eyes. Twin streaks of ruby lancing from elbow to wrist graced the delicate flesh of his forearms, surrounded by a slowly spreading pool of his own blood.

"Bloody Hell." The expletive fell from his lips just as autopilot kicked in. Harry dropped cold fingers to the slender white neck; he was alive, but only just. Stepping back, he pulled first his jumper, and then his turtleneck over his head. Now that he knew Malfoy was alive, he had to keep him that way. It was imperative that he halt the bleeding. Harry tore the sleeves off his shirt, and then each sleeve into two long strips. One strip was bound as tightly as possible just above the elbow joint, right below the bicep, and repeated the process on the other arm. He could only hope this would apply enough pressure to the blood vessels to slow the bleeding whilst he attempted to bandage the rest of this mess. Tearing the rest of his shirt into strips, he folded a few into pads. He packed the folded material the length of each wound, and then used the longer strips to bind them in place. He went about his grim work swiftly, relieved when the pale boy's arms were swaddled in cotton from elbow to wrist. His fingers danced up to check Malfoy's pulse again, only to discover angry silver-gray eyes boring into his skull. Malfoy's lips were chapped and peeling, bluish-white from blood loss. They moved in hardly more then a rasping whisper, "…Why did it have to be you?" Smoky blonde lashes fluttered and his eyes fell closed again, the brief return to consciousness too much of a strain.

Shock froze Harry. "Why did it have to be me? What's he on about?" He spoke aloud to himself, his voice echoing lightly in the large corridor.

That statement seemed to mean a million things Harry couldn't begin to fathom. He gave himself a shake that wasn't entirely mental, before pulling his jumper back on. Next order of business was to get Malfoy to the hospital wing. Laying out his cloak he gently shifted the other boy into the lingering warmth of the wool, almost nauseated when he felt how little he weighed. He really shouldn't be surprised; five months of regularly skipping meals would render anyone anorexic. Harry wrapped him tightly in his cloak, lifted and then cradled the fragile bundle in the circle of his arms this time to take off at a run for the hospital wing.

~*~*~*~

"Harry, you did exactly the right thing. I'm so very proud of you. Twenty points for Gryffindor." Professor McGonagall gently laid her hand on Harry's shoulder, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The Professor's gentle and nearly colorless eyes seemed to calm his nerves a little. "The headmaster would also like you to see you in his office." She continued, after a pause.

Harry turned on the balls of his feet swiftly to face the small bed in the back of the hospital wing where they had ensconced Malfoy. It was hard to tell were the ghostly-pale boy ended and the sharp bleached-whiteness of the sheets began- they were nearly the same color. Both his skin and hair were so pale the whole could have been carved from the same piece of ivory. 

Professor McGonagall gave him a gentle shove towards the door. "You've done all you can for him, Harry, now run along." she nodded firmly to punctuate the last statement.

He let the momentum carry him a few steps, before halting again. The person lying in that bed resembled a husk more then a human, and not just because of the significant blood-loss. There had been something missing from the other boy since they had come back to school, and it wasn't just his failure to harass Harry and his friends. The emptiness was not just a physical reality, but a mental one as well; how close Harry had come to ending up this way, himself. He could only shake his head, before heading with renewed purpose to Dumbledore's office.

The gargoyle seemed to sense his presence, and jumped aside just when Harry realized that he didn't know the password. He felt his eyebrow arch of it own accord- he really shouldn't be surprised; after all, the Headmaster was expecting him.

"Come in Harry, you're blocking the stairwell." Even from here, he could hear the tired smile on the Headmaster's face. 

Harry bounded up the circular stairwell taking the steps two at a time, even as it grated upwards of its own accord. He stepped inside the cluttered office, and chose the only surface that wasn't listing from the weight of magical items or paperwork to sit down. The office normally bustled with vibrant energy, but today even the paintings of the former headmasters were dull and silent. Dumbledore suddenly seemed older as well, the tracery of lines on his face drawn deeper, and more careworn then ever before.

The Headmaster leaned back in his chair; his hands had come together to form a steeple with his fingers, his middle digits just brushing the tip of his long pointed nose. "You know," he began tiredly. "This is something I have never had to deal with before. And because of who he is, I haven't the vaguest idea of where to begin. Tell me how you found him, if you please." Dumbledore looked up very abruptly and met Harry's eyes with an intensity that made him feel exposed.

Breaking eye contact, he shook his head, just twice, and gestured vaguely, trying to decide how to begin. "Well…" his voice gave out, and Harry cleared his throat forcefully. "Well," he tried again, "I didn't eat supper last night, and so I was going to the kitchens to have an early breakfast. I was lost in thought, and then I slipped and nearly fell… Then I realized what I had slipped in was blood, and I looked up and saw Malfoy sitting on the floor between two suits of armor, both of his arms slit from wrist to elbow."

Harry paused, and took a deep breath- he heard it shake as he exhaled, seeming so much louder then normal. "I took my shirt off, and used it to bandage his wounds. Then I wrapped him in my cloak and carried him to the hospital wing." Harry paused again, not sure if he should tell the Headmaster this part or not- "He woke up for just a second as I finished tying off the second bandage. He must have recognized me because he said, 'Why did it have to be you?' and he went unconscious again." Harry looked up then, for the first time realizing that his eyes had unfocused as he'd spoken. 

"Professor", Harry took a deep breath while Dumbledore waited for him to finish. "There was so much blood. I really thought he would die as I was bandaging him up." 

The tired old face lit in something near to its normal demeanor. "Harry, you did the best thing anyone could have done under the circumstances. I'm afraid to say that many people, including ones in this school now, would have simply left him to die. And you who have suffered more at the hands of him, his father, and his father's master, immediately tried to save him, without any thought whatsoever as to who he was- you only cared that he needed your help." The smile on the headmaster's face was now alight with pride. "When I remember that there are people like you Harry, I think we may just have a chance after all."

"You may go now." The headmaster changed subject and expression so abruptly Harry almost felt like he'd run into a wall. The ancient man was already staring into the empty space between himself and the window he was facing. "I know you haven't eaten breakfast, and as horrible as food may sound after what you've seen, you should at least try."

~*~*~*~

A silence unlike any he'd ever heard greeted him when he came into the Great Hall for breakfast. It was so oppressive that it stopped him cold in mid-stride. The entire school population seemed to be looking at him expectantly, as if they wanted him to make a speech. 

Well, it wasn't any of their business. Harry knew that if it were he in Malfoy's place he wouldn't want the situation blabbed to the whole school. He couldn't possibly fathom how everyone had found out so quickly. Ignoring the curious stares, he sat down at the Gryffindor table in his usual place across from Ron and Hermione.

"Harry…" Ron began, and then fell silent when Hermione hissed at him. They glanced at each other simultaneously, and then back at him. Harry sighed.

He might as well get this out of the way. Calmly, he began shoveling scrambled eggs onto his plate. "You want to know what happened." Harry said flatly, now helping himself to the sausage links. He repeated his earlier speech about why and how he'd found Malfoy, but omitting the bit where Malfoy had briefly regained consciousness. He took a thoughtful bite of egg, while he waited for them to digest this news. 

"Why'd you do it, Harry?" Ron blurted, seeming just as surprised that he'd said it. Harry didn't have to look to know that he and Hermione were giving Ron the same outraged expression. 

"Why'd I do it? You mean, why did I save him? Why did I feel like I had to save someone who had always been nasty to us, and nearly everyone else? Why'd I save him when he's probably going to turn out just like his father?" The muscles in Harry's jaw worked as he tried to explain not only to Ron, but also himself, why he'd done it. The answer appeared quite clearly in his mind all of a sudden, and he continued, "Because, if I had left him there to die, that would have made me just like him."

The rest of breakfast and in fact the whole day, passed quickly and rather quieter then usual. Snape even left him alone during Potions, seemingly eyeing him with grudging respect. 

After his last class let out, Harry headed straight to the hospital wing, a strong sense of purpose marking his stride. It wasn't his business, and it wasn't his problem, but he knew what it was like to want to die. And he wanted to know why.

~*~*~*~

The sun was just beginning to set when Draco Malfoy found himself thrust rather forcefully back into consciousness, thoroughly irritated that he was still alive. But then, he hadn't been able to do anything since he was eleven years old without tripping over Harry fucking Potter every step of the bloody way. That boy was destined to be the wild card in every deck, that much was certain. 

Draco was only mildly surprised when the Defender of Truth and Justice himself came striding into the hospital wing, and headed directly towards him. He was of course, the absolute last person he wanted to see him this way. Of all the bloody 'effing people to walk down that particular corridor at that hour, why did it have to be him?

And what, for Merlin's sake, was he doing here now?

Harry hid his surprise that Malfoy was already awake. He grabbed the nearest chair spinning it around, so it was backwards. He straddled it, resting his arms across the back and his chin on top of his arms. "You're awake. I didn't think you would be."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Someone give Captain Obvious here a biscuit." His voice sounded weak to him, dry.

Harry eyed him thoughtfully, ignoring the sarcasm. "I know what it's like, you know." He paused, and Malfoy looked at him expectantly. "To want to die; I know what it's like. I just never had enough courage to go through with it."

For the first time in many months, Draco allowed himself to laugh. He hadn't heard anything quite that ridiculous in years! "You don't believe me." Harry's statement was clouded with the beginnings of anger.

"You're a perfect moron, you know that, Potter?" Malfoy paused briefly to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes, and tucked a stray lock of platinum hair behind his ear. "Oh, I'm sure you've wanted to die. I'm sure everyone has at one point. That isn't why I'm laughing."

"Is that so." Another statement hissed with sarcasm dripping from every word.

"What I find funny is that you think it takes courage to off yourself. What it takes is cowardice. Living is hard- that takes courage. Death is easy, Potter." Malfoy looked absently out the window as he finished speaking, and missed all the color draining from Harry's face.

"How right you are, Mr. Malfoy, more right then you can possibly know." The Headmaster breezed in, his robes of purple and gold floating around his frail old body like a cloud, Snape in his familiar severe black following in his wake, to stand at the foot of his bed. Malfoy met Snape's glare defiantly, but found he couldn't look Dumbledore in the eye. "I'll have to tell your father."

Malfoy shrugged, the whole encounter already making him tired. "He won't care. He probably won't even reply to your owl." He finally looked up then forcing his silvery-gray orbs to meet Dumbledore's own faded blue ones. "You don't know Lucius as well as I do."

Snape was beginning to look mildly alarmed. "Draco, you are the only heir to the Malfoy name, Lucius will care that you almost died." Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes; if he were Malfoy, he'd feel LOADS better after that.

Anger surfaced across Malfoy's pale delicate features. "I'm telling you, Lucius will not care. I'm no longer his heir- I've been disowned", he finished with his voice strangely steady, and deadly calm. 

Silence reigned. He could have dropped a dung bomb, and no one would have noticed. Under different circumstances he might have had a good laugh at their expense- It wasn't everyday that you got to see Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, Potions Master Severus Snape, and Harry bloody POTTER all slack-jawed and wide-eyed in surprise. The headmaster recovered first. His blue eyes seemed to sharpen as they narrowed. "Mr. Malfoy, I suggest you elaborate on how your situation came to be."

"Headmaster, you can't expect me to tell you with him listening." Malfoy gestured vaguely in Harry's direction.

"I most certainly do. You may begin." The words spoken were politely enough, though they carried a thinly veiled command, and a tone while pleasant was enough to make Malfoy stiffen. He clenched the sheet in one white knuckled fist. "There were two things that did it. The first one was not enough by itself. The second would have done it by itself, but when the first was added to it, Lucius found it completely unacceptable." 

"You are stalling, Mr. Malfoy. I will not send Harry away."

Draco stared very hard at the sheets, and the whiteness of his clenched fists. There would be bloody holes in his palms from his fingernails, he knew. "The first thing," he paused, trembling visibly now, "The first thing I did was refuse to marry after I finished school."

Snape's face seemed to relax just enough to be noticeable. "You dislike the person Lucius chose for you?"

Draco felt his eyebrow twitch in annoyance. Snape could be incredibly dense sometimes. "I refused to marry. Period. Now, or ever, regardless of who it is."

Harry, who had not moved or spoken in quite some time, interrupted quietly. "I don't understand."

"Holy Morgan, Mother of Mordred(1), you're going to make me come out and say it." Draco dropped his head into his hands. "If I marry, I'd be expected to father children." Harry could almost hear the revulsion dripping off each word as they fell from Malfoy's mouth. His disgust was palpable; Harry felt his stomach give a lurch in sympathetic nausea. Comprehension must have dawned on his face, because Malfoy cocked an amused eyebrow in his direction. "Little slow on the uptake there, Potter. Yes, I prefer my own gender."

Snape abruptly sat down on the bed next to his, his features blank. Harry found that he was dizzy- if he hadn't been sitting down already, he would have had to as well. 

The Headmaster didn't even waver. "And the other thing?" he pressed.

"I refused the Dark Mark."

Harry found quite suddenly that he was on the cold tile floor; the chair seemed to have expelled him from its seat with a will of its own.

Malfoy cast an amused glance at Harry, before looking to see the reaction of the other two. Snape was still catatonic from the first revelation, and apparently hadn't been paying attention. The Headmaster looked genuinely surprised, and very pleased. "Mr. Malfoy, I am of course very pleased with your decision. I'm also horrified that your father forced that decision upon you at all. What did he do when you told him?

"What do you think he did? He beat me for three full hours, and then tossed me out on my ear like garbage. I took the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley, and got a room at the Leaky Cauldron until it was time to come back to school. I obviously didn't go home for the holidays." All of this was spoken clinically, Harry noticed, coldly, and all the while Malfoy gazed out the window, his silver eyes fixed on something no one else could see.

The Headmaster was silent for a long while. Finally, he spoke carefully, "The pressure on you must have been enormous. Madame Pomfrey tells me that it will be several days before you will be able to make up for the significant blood loss you've sustained, and I want you to take that time to relax as much as possible."

"In light of what you have revealed to me, I will not send an Owl to Malfoy Manor." This news received no reaction whatsoever from Malfoy. He continued to stare out the window blankly. The Headmaster stayed for a few minutes longer, before silently retreating, Snape following equally silent soon after.

---- Next chapter

~*~*~*~  
Footnotes:

(1) Morgan le Fey, half-sister to King Arthur, was also the mother of Arthur's only son Mordred. Mordred later attempted to kill Arthur, and died in the attempt. Legend says that Morgan took Arthur to the Isle of Avalon where he lies sleeping waiting to rise again when Britain needs him.   



	2. True Faith 02

Title: True Faith (02/??)  
Author: Nicky Townsend (nicky@sacramentoanime.com)   
Pairings: HP/DM  
Rating/Warnings: I'm going to say R with leanings towards NC-17. Rating for sexual situations, attempted suicide, and (with the suicide attempt only) a great deal of romanticizing about blood and death. The sort of thing that inspires bad Goth poetry, I'm afraid. Oh- if you haven't noticed, this is SLASH. If you aren't here for young, hot boy-on-boy action, I suggest you run while you still can. Flames will be saved to light my cigarettes.   
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. All songs quoted are the property of the various artists that wrote them, and are used without permission. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All music quoted is the property of those with the talent to write it; which wouldn't be me.   
Summary: Draco's attempted suicide brings about many things- some good, some bad, and some very bad. He's forced to see the world in a different way, and to try to cope with what he sees.

~*~*~*~  
True Faith 02   
~*~*~*~  
"Well, I live with snakes and lizards,   
And other things that go bump in the night   
Because to me, everyday is Halloween   
And I've given up hiding, and started to fight"

~"Everyday is Halloween"  
- Ministry   
~*~*~*~

Everything Harry had heard in the past twenty minutes had made his brain ache. He distinctly felt the desire to be able to run his squishy gray mass under running water, wring it out and stuff it back in his ear. Perhaps that way, he could get rid of his extraneous thoughts and make room for the new thoughts and facts he'd just been forced to absorb into an already over-crowded space. 

He remained still and quiet once he'd regained his seat. At least he knew that he hadn't been the only one thrown for a loop. The first part didn't come as too much of a shock to Harry. Now that he actually thought about it, he'd never seen Malfoy in the presence of a female without a disgusted grimace on his face. It was common knowledge that he'd been giving Pansy Parkinson the brush-off from the very beginning. Theories had been many and widely varied as to why; he found it strange that none of them had even been close to the mark.

Speaking of marks- that was one bit of information Harry's fried brain simply refused to absorb. Everything he'd ever seen and heard had suggested exactly the opposite. Suggested- never had he; or anyone else for that matter- seen any ironclad, cast in concrete facts. Malfoy had always acted like his father was his idol, and Voldemort was Jesus resurrected. Well, he had never actually said that, but it had always been IMPLIED

Suddenly, Harry found himself brutally slapped with the obviousness of it all. He goggled at the sheer brilliance, the amazing skill of the act that Malfoy had managed to maintain all these years. 

Once, a few years ago, Harry had seen Lucius backhand Malfoy across the face in a school corridor just after mid-term marks had been posted. The only snatches of conversation that he'd picked up from around the corner had been "disgrace to the family name", "beat you again!" and "filthy mudblood." Malfoy had always been slender, and just a hair smaller then most boys his age. And yet, when his father had struck him, he neither stumbled, nor made a single sound, although it had seemed to Harry that Lucius must have struck him incredibly hard to make Malfoy's head fly back so far. 

He clenched his eyes shut as realization rolled over him. Harry knew from his own experience that if you cried out, or fought back, that it often made the person hitting you more likely to do so again. He also knew that if you could anticipate the hit, and move back as you took it, it would absorb some of the impact. He never thought he'd learn anything of use from Dudley- the huge boy had detailed this exact technique as he'd babbled on about the joys of boxing. Malfoy had purposely flung his head back to minimize the damage of the blow. Harry understood with sudden quiet certainty that Malfoy must have received such blows on many occasions, and that he must have secretly despised his father with same the fervor as Harry did the Dursleys.

All this time, Malfoy had been acting the dutiful son, waiting patiently, more patiently then Harry could have ever possibly managed, for the right time to free himself. He'd built a wall of apathy around himself so strong that nothing could touch him, or his conviction. Harry felt the beginnings of respect starting to materialize. 

Only one real question remained to Harry- after enduring so much, with the freedom of so many years of work and patience finally realized, why had Malfoy attempted to kill himself? Lifting his gaze from the floor for the first time in what must have been at least ten minutes, he found the object of his thoughts watching him intently.

"I bet you think you've got me all figured out, don't you?" Malfoy queried, his delicate features strangely devoid of expression.

Harry's eyebrow drew together in thought briefly before he replied. "Not really, no." He stood up rather awkwardly, and returned the chair to its standardized place. His brow still wrinkled in puzzlement, he nodded to Malfoy. "I hope you feel better." Formalities over with, he turned and, in a way that suggested he really wasn't paying attention to where he was going, made his way out of the hospital wing.

~*~*~*~ 

Draco watched Potter wander aimlessly out of the hospital wing, his own brain now twisted in knots of confusion. He had completely expected a full-fledged inquisition à la Malleus Maleficarum (1), to take place the instant the teachers had left. Instead he'd gotten dead silence, and Potter staring rather blankly at the floor. 

Many expressions had passed over the other boy's face as he'd watched. The first had been complete confusion; he actually saw the threads of some theory slowly knit themselves together behind Potter's jade-like eyes. He could almost SEE the bits of evidence being compiled as Potter took a mental step back to look at the tiny chunks form into a more cohesive whole.

As the puzzle pieces began to fit together, the object of the picture had started to reveal itself. Certainly, huge gaps were still present, but enough pieces were there to at least discern what the picture truly was. Upon realization of that picture, Potter's face had flooded with horror. His normally attractive features had twisted in ways Draco hadn't thought possible. 

After yet more time, Potter had finally looked up to meet his eyes again, his face showing the very beginnings of grudging respect coupled with understanding built from personal experience. The blatant emotions had paraded across his liquid green eyes with all the fanfare of a marching band. 

The reply to his question had not been at all what he'd expected. But then, he'd always assumed the other boy was at least reasonably intelligent. If he were, he'd know that what he'd learned today wasn't even the tip of the proverbial iceberg, but a speck no larger then a snowflake.

That boy really did have the most expressive eyes. That was one of the things that hadn't changed from the first year they'd met.

Seeking a more comfortable position, Draco snuggled into his medicinal-smelling infirmary pillows, one arm draped across his chest, his other arm turned at an unnatural angle to avoid the injured side resting on the mattress. After a moment, he flipped onto his side so that the injured sides of both forearms could be turned away from the slightly rough sheets. Although they were bandaged fully from wrist to elbow, the skin was so sensitive and sore that any pressure at all was too much. Leave it to him; he scowled to himself, to not even be able to kill himself properly. Frustrated, he blew a stubborn lock of hair out of his eyes, only to have it settle right where it started.

So many things about Potter had changed, he mused. The awkwardness that Potter had carried himself with at first had been replaced slowly over the years by a liquid, feline grace. He had the physique of someone accustomed to a great deal of hard work and never quite enough to eat- lean and wiry, yet amazing strong. Sometime over the summer, his face had lost the slightly boyish softness that it had retained even at the end of last year. It had been replaced by a strong and solid jaw line, and noticeable but delicate cheekbones. Today that jaw line was prickled with the start of a neglected five o'clock shadow. His eyebrows had thickened almost imperceptibly, and his mouth had taken on a hardness born from the hardship and sorrow life had dealt him. The very beginnings of laugh lines already surrounded his intensely and vividly green eyes, a needed balance to the pain expressed in his mouth. All of these things came together to create the unmistakable stamp of character that made Harry Potter Harry Potter.

The soot-black mop of unkempt hair, however, hadn't changed in the slightest. It still looked as though a young house elf had gotten to it with a very dull Potions lab knife. All in all, the cumulative effect was intensely attractive in ways that Draco had only briefly speculated upon in years past, and on which he currently found his thoughts dwelling at length. The beginnings of a lovely little fantasy began to play on the edges of Draco's mind, bringing the faintest of smiles to his lips.

He could see those jade eyes flutter closed, lashes as dark as a raven's wing against the skin of his delicately flushed cheekbones. The pale pink of his lips darkened from biting, parted in breathless sound of pleasure. The long yet sturdy fingers twisted in the bedclothes. That long neck arched, sinews and muscle leaping visibly through thin, fine skin. 

What a shame it was, Draco mused wryly on the very edges of sleep, that Potter was probably as straight as an arrow, and more pure then freshly fallen snow.

~*~*~*~*~

Draco was forced to suffer three days of intense boredom before finally being released on Friday after classes were let out. Absolutely no one had come to visit him during his convalescence. He'd been instructed to have dinner, and then to go speak with the Headmaster.

He positively dreaded going into the Great Hall. And it was just as bad as he'd expected, maybe even a little worse. He walked in, and silence descended. Blatant stares he had expected; that they should peruse him as if he were some kind of oddity they were supposed to cut up for Potions class had been a given. 

Instead, no one looked his way. Everyone at all four House tables simply examined the food on their plates as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Even some of the teachers looked uncomfortable. He could hear the telltale fidgeting of cutlery being jostled, the scuffing of boot-shod feet underneath the tables. Only Potter looked up as he came in. He looked sad, and merely nodded his understanding. 

The noise of the Hall returned quite suddenly, as though the silence had been nothing but an illusion, similar to the clear, velvety indigo-colored night sky that currently doubled as the ceiling. 

Draco returned the nod with a shrug before proceeding to the Slytherin table. His usual seat had been taken by some fifth year he didn't recognize. With a deep sigh, he sat at the very end close to the doors of the Hall. At the very least, he could make a hasty exit if he needed to. He turned inward as he forced himself to eat. He moved his food mechanically from his plate to his mouth, never tasting a single bite. He found that his appetite had not returned; that or his stomach had shrunk considerably. A single slice of pot roast, a few mouthfuls of salad and he was full. 

He strolled calmly out the doors a few minutes later, well aware that the silence had returned. 

He meandered through the corridors for a bit, not knowing if the Headmaster was still at dinner or not. Draco found himself in front of the gargoyle leading up to his office in shorter order then he'd wanted. The statue eyed him stonily before informing him that the Headmaster was not in. Leaning up against the wall, he shoved his fists into the pockets of his robes, closed his eyes and waited.

"Ah, Draco, you're already here! Have you been waiting long?" Draco's eyes snapped open. The Headmaster was naught but half a meter from him. His eyes narrowed in suspicion- Dumbledore only smiled widely before turning to speak the password to the gargoyle. "Strawberry Pocky(2)." Obligingly, the statue moved aside.

Draco realized as he stepped into the office, that he couldn't remember if he'd ever been in there before. It looked much as he'd expected it to; packed to the seams with knickknacks, many of them unidentifiable. Only one chair wasn't littered with a mishmash of papers and objects; choice removed from him that was where he sat.

He'd hardly settled into the deeply cushioned chair when the first question was lobbed his way. "What will you do now?" It caught him off guard.

"I haven't thought about it. If you'll recall, my plan was to be in a pine box under the ground at this point." A pained expression crossed the aged face, and then was quickly gone. "I suppose I'll finish school, get a job, and buy a house in the countryside." Draco couldn't help the sarcasm that dripped off his every word. He wasn't trying- it just came out that way.

"So, everything is final?"

The beginning of a headache throbbed in Draco's head. He pressed cold fingers to his temple before snapping, "Even if it wasn't, I couldn't bring myself to care in the slightest. I plan on keeping at least a hundred kilometers between Lucius and myself for the rest of my life. His presence makes me want to projectile vomit." The thought of being anywhere near Lucius really did make his stomach heave, and his face twisted as he forced himself to swallow the bile that had risen into his mouth. "But to answer your question, yes, I have the legal documentation. He can't really 'remove' me until I'm eighteen, but all the foundations have been laid. Our lawyers have everything taken care of." 

The Headmaster leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, causing several miscellaneous objects to clatter to the floor. "Lucius did not 'toss you out on your ear', as you so eloquently put it, without a Sickle to your name, then?"

"Sweet Merlin, no." Draco scoffed. "What most would term a small fortune will be transferred to my Gringott's vault on my eighteenth birthday, provided all the paperwork is signed and returned."

"And the details of the paperwork?" The Headmaster pressed.

"That upon attaining legal majority, I can no longer use the Malfoy name, or make any attempt to contact any members of any branch of the family, anywhere in the world, for any reason." Shrugging, he added wryly, "Once again, not that I care in the slightest."

The Headmaster was nodding slowly as he explained everything. Now that there was silence, he leaned back in his chair, appearing deep in thought. "I'll rephrase my original question- what would you LIKE to do?"

"I really haven't thought about it." He couldn't quite hide the annoyance creeping into his voice. The pounding in his temples was getting worse. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Have you ever thought of teaching?" 

"No." Draco suddenly felt as though his brain had taken a tumble out his ear, and it was being trodden upon by drunken, randy centaurs.

"Professor Sumeragi (3) has made it perfectly clear that he'd like to return to his homeland at the end of the year. This will leave us without a Defense teacher yet again."

"You want ME to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Completely against his will, he felt his jaw hanging slack. The lapse in control lasted only a nanosecond before he forcibly screwed his normal mask back into place. Now it was amusement that colored his tone. "You'll have to forgive me for saying this, Headmaster, but you have an unmatched taste for irony." 

There was a twinkle in the old Headmaster's eye as he replied. "Who better to teach Defense then someone who was raised on the Dark Arts?"

Silvery-gray eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "Why haven't you asked Potter if he'll do it? Certainly he'd be better at it." It had begun to feel like he was playing a verbal version of the Muggle game of Tennis.

"Harry has already said he wants to be an Auror."

"Potter? An Auror? He doesn't have the marks for that, and you well know it." 

"There is only one subject in which is he lacking." The headmaster steepled his fingers in front of him, a shaggy white eyebrow arched. 

Draco had the sudden sickening feeling he knew where this conversation was going. "Potions."

"That is correct. Now I ask again, more formally- would you like to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts here at Hogwarts next term?" It was both an offer and a challenge at the same time.

Eyebrows knit in thought Draco considered his options. Everyone would know, disowned or not, that Lucius was his father. Everyone, almost without fail, would always assume that he was like him. No matter what his marks or his family name, that specter would haunt him for the rest of his days. He suddenly realized that the Headmaster was not just offering him a job- he was offering him a chance to prove through actions as well as speech that he was not like his father, in all the ways that counted. Teachers were not paid especially well, but it was free room and board for ten months out of the year, three meals a day, plus holidays off. All things considered, it was a very generous offer. A golden eyebrow cocked, he sardonically inquired "And the fine print?" 

"Very astute of you, Draco. I'd like you to tutor Harry in Potions. Your marks in Potions exceed even those of Hermione Granger. This will ensure that Harry passes his Potions NEWTS with flying colors, and I get to find out if you have what it takes to be a teacher. The end result will be that I get a competent Defense teacher, you get a job without your father's shadow hanging over you, and Harry will become one of the best Aurors in history. A win-win situation, wouldn't you say?"

A win-win situation indeed, Draco parroted back to himself, his mental tone mocking. He was cornered. He was a hundred years young to outwit Albus Dumbledore and he knew it.

"You'll have to get Potter to agree." It was a long shot, but it was the last escape route. 

"He already has." 

Draco's world spun around him. Even his own father hadn't ever been able to manipulate him that smoothly. Vertigo was nearly threatening to overwhelm him. Was it still manipulation if you knew what was going on and you liked the idea? Wasn't that just positive presentation of facts? Why then, did he still feel like he was being conned? 

"How ever did you get him to agree? We aren't exactly best mates, you know." He couldn't hide the disbelief in his voice; he only managed to muffle it a little. Even still, it sounded a little shaky to him.

"It was all Harry's idea to begin with..." Wait a minute. ALL Potter's idea? His train of thought derailed with the force of an atom bomb. Dizziness so powerful that it made the whole room swirl around him, and his sight go momentarily dim assaulted him. Draco was sure all his blood must be pooling in his feet. 

"Draco, are you all right? You look as if you've just seen a Dementor." There was a great deal of humor mixed in with the concern in the leathery old voice. Draco took the proffered chocolate anyway.

"Professor. Do you mean to tell me that it was Harry Potter that suggested that I tutor him in Potions? That HE thought I'd make a good Defense teacher?" Didn't that just beat all? All Potter's idea. Damn those drunken, randy centaurs. He just couldn't wrap his brain around it.

"Right on all counts! I should have thought of it all myself, as I completely agree with him." This was all completely beyond the pale. Here he was, at the tender age of seventeen, being offered a teaching position at a school from which he had not yet finished, which had been suggested to the Headmaster by his Arch Rival.

"Next you'll be telling me I have a date with him tomorrow!"

"Actually, you do." Draco felt his heart skid to a screeching halt. "A STUDY date." 

"Oh." The shock subsided, and his heart resumed its normal pace. A few seconds passed before he was able to speak again. "I was wondering aren't you the least bit worried that I might try to kill myself again?"

"Not really. After all, I just gave you something to live for, didn't I?"

~*~*~*~

Harry couldn't help it. He was nervous. However, this whole scheme was his bloody idea, and he was damn well going to see it through. 

The library was not usually a place he liked to hang out. This was, however, supposed to be a study session, so the library was as good a place as any. It served another purpose as well- he wanted people to see Malfoy with him. Harry hadn't gone so far as to try and figure THAT out. There were too many things there he didn't want to look at just yet. 

It had been a rather shocking blow, now that he thought about it, to hear that Malfoy had refused the Dark Mark. He was THRILLED, of course; one less person trying to kill him was always a good thing. At the same time though, if his theory was correct, he'd wasted a lot of time hating this boy for all the wrong reasons. He realized now that perhaps he could have helped Malfoy, had he accepted his hand all those years ago. There was so much pain he might have been able to save him from. 

Harry had learned over the last six and half years since he'd started at Hogwarts that his own pain would not lessen as he grew older. If anything, his capacity to feel pain had increased. It had been something of an epiphany for him when he discovered that even though he couldn't possibly live up to everyone's standards for him that just allowing them that illusion made them feel safer. The fact that his very existence comforted people filled him with a sense of awe, even though he knew that feeling was misplaced. Sometimes, illusions were even more important then truth.

It was a selfish reason for wanting to help people, and he knew it. But it was an illusion he had knowingly created for himself to get through his life one day at a time. Perhaps Malfoy had needed him as a rival to fulfill his own need for an illusion- perhaps the years of bickering and plotting had distracted him enough to temporarily forget the horrors he had to deal with at home. 

These were just a few of the things that Harry was curious about. Therefore he had concocted this grandiose plan as an excuse. Not that Malfoy wasn't completely perfect for a Defense teacher, because he was and Harry did genuinely need help with Potions- he'd never been very good at it, no matter how hard he tried. 

Staring off into space, he found that his thoughts, while far from complete, had come full circle. A glance at the clock on the library wall told him that Malfoy should be arriving any second. He'd made sure that he had gotten a table as far away as possible, yet still within view of the door. The plan had been to be able to watch Malfoy approach- and what a good plan it was. 

At this very moment, Malfoy was making his way through the moderately crowded library. Harry had never stopped to just watch the boy walk before. You could tell so much about a person just by their gait and the way they stood. When he'd first come in, he'd paused in the doorway. His posture spoke volumes to those who cared to look. His hands were tucked inside the pockets of his black trousers, slim hips pressed forward, head tilted down just a little and his eyes narrowed. To some, this might have given the appearance that he was staring down his nose at you; in Harry's eyes, it made it seem that he was peering at you from under his eyelashes. Malfoy positively smoldered, without even trying.

Then, he'd looked up and seen Harry- Malfoy's expression had changed imperceptibly. Gone was the previous bored curiosity, and it was replaced by anticipation? It was just a slight widening of the silvery-gray eyes, a change in the tilt of that delicate, almost elfin jaw-line. 

His hair had grown considerably over the past months. The white-gold tips just barely brushed the open collar of the loose white button-down shirt. It hung loose, Malfoy having long ago given up on the styling potion. It naturally parted in the middle, though it looked like he'd only just run his fingers through it a moment ago to push it away from his face. A single silky platinum lock stubbornly refused to remain tucked behind his ear, hanging over his forehead, falling to just past his chin. 

Not one, but two buttons past the collar of his shirt were undone, giving a tantalizing view of the pale creamy flesh of his neck and collarbones. His shoulders had broadened considerably over the past several years, tapering down to a trim, narrow waist and lean hips. The self-inflicted wounds from earlier in the week had since been banished by the tender ministrations of Madame Pomfrey, leaving only the barest hint of a scar on each arm. These were visible only because the cuffs of each shirt were unbuttoned as well, and rolled up to midway up his forearm. By all the gods, how could forearms be sexy? Perhaps it was the thinness of the skin, which made the taut corded muscle layered with veins underneath visible to the naked eye. 

His passage from the door to the table seemed to take forever- to Harry it was like slow motion, though perhaps ten seconds had actually passed. Too soon, and not soon enough he was standing at the table where Harry sat trying to lounge, attempting to look casual. Now came the difficult part- now they had to speak. 

Harry gestured benevolently at the chair across from him, hesitant to speak though the silence was quickly becoming awkward. He was certain that he'd planned something to say- whatever it had been had left him the moment Malfoy had stepped into the room. 

Harry's quandary was solved when Malfoy pulled the strap of his heavy black leather satchel from over his shoulder, dropping it with a loud 'thunk' on the table before taking the seat opposite him. Harry blinked in surprise, the illusion of elegance and gracefulness shattered beyond repair. 

He was drawing study materials from his satchel, his voice smooth and rather bland as he immediately began the lesson. "I've put a lot of thought into this since yesterday, and I think I've figured out why you've always had such a hard time in Potions."

"That doesn't take any thought at all." Harry crossed his arms across his chest, pouting. "It's Snape, it's always been Snape."

Sharp silver eyes bored into his skull, making Harry shift uncomfortably in his chair. "Stop talking out of your arse Potter, or I'll just be on my way. I don't give two tugs of a dead dog's cock(4) if you pass your NEWTS, and I have a great deal of things to do which are far more important then trying to force information into your admittedly dense, lead-like brain. The probability of success is about as likely as the extraction of blood from a turnip."

Harry knew his jaw was dangling. He should have known that was coming. This was your idea, he reminded himself. He closed it with an audible snap, and assumed what he hoped was an attentive pose. 

Malfoy tilted his white-gold head back, and was now most certainly staring down his nose at him. A matching white-gold eyebrow cocked in wry amusement, and his mouth twisted into an accompanying half-smile. "Good. Now as I was going to say, I think I've figured out what your problem has always been. I've watched you in class, randomly tossing ingredients into your cauldron with hardly any regard to order, or technique at all.

"I think what you're lacking is the theory behind what makes potions what they are- a potion is not just the sum of its ingredients, but something much more. This can not be forced- it must be gently coaxed with extreme patience.

"Unicorn blood, for example. Stop looking at me like that and let me finish! The Unicorn does not have to be dead to donate blood you know- they are intelligent creatures, and have some ability to judge a persons' intentions and emotions. If the Unicorn judges your reason to be a good one, it will willingly allow you to take a small amount of blood from it. Consequently, blood sacrificed willingly is far more powerful then it could have ever been had it been removed by force. Unicorn blood is the main ingredient in one of the most potent healing draughts currently known- on the other hand, blood taken against its will would render the draught worthless, or possibly even backfire. Obviously, forcefully taken Unicorn blood is only used in Dark potions and rituals."

Harry found himself feverishly taking notes. He also found himself wondering suddenly how such concepts applied to other animals. And what about plants? You couldn't ask a plant for permission. Before he could open his mouth to ask, Malfoy continued:

"This concept of willingness can only really apply to intelligent, magical creatures. Obviously a newt or a bat while it can feel pain, doesn't have the same ability to feel emotions the same way as a creature such as a Unicorn, or, say, a Centaur. However, ingredients acquired from non-intelligent animals should always be taken in the most painless way possible. Knock the creature out, and then kill it swiftly with one blow. Stop grimacing, Potter. Freshness equals potency.

"A similar concept also applies to plants. Its environment, regardless of whether that ingredient is living, magical, intelligent, or inanimate, always affects the ingredient. A plant grown in good fertilizer will always be superior to one grown in poor fertilizer. A tree that has grown in a graveyard will have vastly different attributes from one raised in someone's garden. This sort of thing is very important in harvesting plant-based ingredient for Potions. Another thing that is extremely important is the time of year, and phase of the moon, or the quality of sunlight- a plant harvested under the light of full moon on the Summer Solstice is going to have a different quality then the same plant harvested in Moon Dark on Samhain."

Malfoy finally paused to catch his breath. Harry meanwhile, was shaking his head slowly in quiet awe. He'd filled forty-five centimeters worth of parchment taking notes. Suddenly a great deal about the subject he'd never considered before was floating around in his head. "Wow. I never realized so many variables went into making Potions. I can see how Care of Magical Creatures fits in with it, as well as Herbology. I can imagine Arithmancy must be incredibly helpful as well. I wish I'd taken it now instead of Divination." 

The eyes of his tutor widened in surprise, before shining briefly with approval. "Good, so that all made sense, then."

"Perfectly!" Harry was suddenly more animated as he voiced his newfound perspective. "Its no wonder most of my potions turned out botched- I'd never even considered these things let alone realized they were important. I always though that Snape gave us queer instructions to reinforce his position as The Most Annoying Git in Existence." This actually squeezed a chuckle out of Malfoy. 

Harry regarded the other boy seriously, "Do you realize that your speech just now taught me more about potions then I'd learned after taking the class for six and half years from Snape?" 

Malfoy lips parted as if to speak, but another voice interrupted, and overrode him. 

"Hey, Harry! Are we still on for tonight?" Harry winced as the sixth year Hufflepuff girl draped herself around his shoulders. 

"Of course, Gwen. Remember, I promised you that since I went with Seamus last time, I'd go with you this time?" Harry stood and extracted himself from the grasp of the lovely girl. Gwen was gorgeous- her auburn hair was long and thick, and her eyes were a hazel that lent slightly more towards green then brown. She had the body of a Play Wizard centerfold, but alas, nothing is perfect. Her exquisite looks did nothing to make up for her lack of intelligence. 

"Wonderful! I'll meet you at the same time as usual then." Before Harry could protest, Gwen threw her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips exuberantly to his. The pressure, while fierce was thankfully brief before the girl released him and bounded out of the library. 

"Didn't know you had a girlfriend, Potter." At the deadpan tone of Malfoy's voice, Harry felt himself cringe. Harry couldn't quite bring himself to meet Malfoy's eyes. Honestly, Harry had forgotten about his promise to Gwen. In fact, he'd been inclined to ask Malfoy if he'd like to go.

"Gwen isn't my girlfriend." Harry found the wood grain of the table to be very fascinating, suddenly.

"Whatever she is, I hope if you have any respect for me at all that you will never subject me to such a revolting sight ever again." 

"Don't worry. It won't happen again. I don't spend much time with her anyway She's rather possessive. Especially since I'm not hers."

There was an awkward silence. Harry used that time to screw up his courage. "Actually" He began, "I was going to ask you if you'd like to go."

Surprise registered on Malfoy's face before he could squelch it. "Go where, pray tell?"

"It's kind of a secret, so you have to promise not to tell anyone." Harry was relieved to see Malfoy nod. "There's a party every Saturday night just outside Hogsmeade inside the Shrieking Shack. A lot of the sixth and seventh years from all the houses except Slytherin go."

"I'll pass, thanks." The words were so abrupt Harry forgot to feel hurt at the rejection. 

"Really, they're a lot of fun. You should give it a try sometime." 

Eyebrows raised, Malfoy inquired, "How come not a lot of the Slytherins go? They enjoy a good party as much as anyone."

"Well," Harry paused trying to think of a way to say this that wouldn't be insulting. "I think it's because most of them can't be trusted. We didn't want to risk the party being shut down. I mean, think if the wrong people found out, what could happen."

"I see."

The awkward silence returned. 

"How do so many people manage to sneak into Hogsmeade and back every week without getting caught?" 

Harry grinned. "You'd be amazed at how many secret passages in this castle lead into Hogsmeade. The safest one leads into the Honeydukes cellar. The direct route is more dangerous- there's a passage under the Whomping Willow that leads into the Shrieking Shack itself. You have to poke a knot on the Willow's trunk, and it will be temporarily paralyzed." 

Malfoy nodded, not really surprised. He sighed- it was obvious they weren't going to get anything else done today.

~*~*~*~*~   
Footnotes: 

(1)The "Malleus Maleficarum", or "Hammer of Witches" was written in 1487 by James Sprenger and Henry Kramer. It was the manual by which most of the Inquisition was conducted. An e-text translated by Montague Summers is available at Not only is this text almost entirely sex-obsessed but ridiculously long. 

(2) For non-anime fans, Pocky is a biscuit dipped in various different flavors of fudge or mousse. It's horribly addictive.

(3) Sumeragi Subaru- I couldn't resist this cameo. He is a character from the manga/anime "Tokyo Babylon" and "X" both by CLAMP. He's an Onmyouji- a sort of exorcist/faith healer/wizard, and I personally think he would have been a great Defense teacher. ^_~

(4) "I don't give two tugs of a dead dog's cock" - This is a reference to the wonderfully fabulous comic "Transmetropolitan" published by DC/Vertigo. The main character, Spider Jerusalem, often reminds me of Draco. I'm not sure why.  



	3. True Faith 03

Title: True Faith (03/??)  
Author: Nicky Townsend (nicky@sacramentoanime.com)   
Pairings: HP/DM  
Rating/Warnings: I'm going to say R with leanings towards NC-17. Rating for sexual situations, attempted suicide, and (with the suicide attempt only) a great deal of romanticizing about blood and death. The sort of thing that inspires bad Goth poetry, I'm afraid. Oh- if you haven't noticed, this is SLASH. If you aren't here for young, hot boy-on-boy action, I suggest you run while you still can. Flames will be saved to light my cigarettes.   
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. All songs quoted are the property of the various artists that wrote them, and are used without permission. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All music quoted is the property of those with the talent to write it; which wouldn't be me.   
Summary: Draco's attempted suicide brings about many things- some good, some bad, and some very bad. He's forced to see the world in a different way, and to try to cope with what he sees.

~*~*~*~  
True Faith 03  
~*~*~*~  
At that place, my encounter with you   
Everything will begin and now, we can't do anything  
In this town, my encounter with you   
And now, with you who cannot love anyone,   
The two of us together again at that hill

~"Akuro no Oka" (The Hill of Acropolis")   
-Dir en Grey (1)  
~*~*~*~

Draco couldn't sleep. It didn't help that he was being eaten alive by curiosity. Damn Potter for planting it there. 

It wasn't just that he wanted desperately to know what this 'party' was all about. It was so Top Secret it had to be interesting. Although on the other hand, the other Top Secret parties he'd been to had really just involved the consumption of alcohol by people legally too young to be drinking and too stupid to know when they'd had enough. For some reason, he sensed that this was somehow vitally different.

There was also the added strangeness that Potter had invited him along. Certainly, the comment that most Slytherins couldn't be trusted made this even more peculiar. At a very obvious point earlier in the week, his name must have changed lists from "Don't be Caught Dead in Public With" to "Potential to be Cool" in Potter's head. 

Although, as he played the memory over again in his head, Potter's offer had sounded strangely like a date. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part, but it sounded to him like Potter would have preferred vastly to go to that party with him then with that Hufflepuff tart. 

It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that watching that whorish bint paw at Potter had made something twist darkly in his gut. He knew what it was- it was something that he'd always felt about the other boy. 

Draco had never known what it was to be jealous until he'd met Harry Potter. He'd never had a reason to be- he'd had the best of everything, had always been the best at everything. Knowing that he'd been the one to accidentally get Potter onto the Gryffindor Quidditch team had made him want to slam his head repeatedly into a brick wall until he fell unconscious. And then Potter got that Nimbus 2000 delivered in the Great Hall during First Year. It had made Draco so sick with jealousy and anger; he hadn't even been able to stand up straight for a week.

Second Year, he'd managed to only turn the tables briefly by getting Lucius to buy the Nimbus 2001s for the entire Slytherin Team. But it hadn't mattered- Potter had caught the Snitch, and not him. And then the Firebolt had arrived Third Year. That had just been bloody icing on the damned cake, now hadn't it? Of course he knew Potter was the better Quidditch player. It didn't matter which broom he had. 

He wasn't sure when he'd given up trying to compete and fell back on being bitter. He hadn't cared that evil Muggle-born witch friend of Potter's had always had better marks then him. He hadn't cared, but his father had. Candles of bitterness added to the cake of jealousy. 

Perhaps it was after Third Year that he'd started to realize what his father was. He'd long since taken up dreading going home for the summer. Most families went on holiday somewhere- he'd had to stay at the Manor and have the tar beaten out of him by Lucius while his mother watched. She would stare down her fine, slender nose at him all the while as if he were a roach or something else distasteful. That summer had been when he'd realized that he positively loathed all women, and had stopped thinking of Lucius as his father and had started calling him Lucius. 

He was no longer jealous of Potter because of petty things like having a better broom and being the better Quidditch player. Now he was jealous because Potter had people who cared about him- people who loved him. That was something Draco realized that he'd never had. Parents who beat you until you could hardly move couldn't love you. Leave it to Lucius to give him birthday gifts of violence to go with bitter candles and the jealousy cake. 

However, after seeing what Potter had gone through Fourth and Fifth Years Draco wouldn't have switched places with him for all the Galleons in Gringotts. When they'd come back for Sixth Year, something had changed in the other boy. Something had been broken. He'd watched as Potter went dazedly through life, and whenever he'd seen him smile at one of his friends, the smile had never quite touched his eyes. The eyes that had always been so vibrantly alive now seemed dull, dark with despair, and far too old for a sixteen-year-old boy. He knew the look of someone just going through the motions- he'd been doing exactly the same thing for years now. 

By the time Sixth Year was over, Potter had changed again. It was like he'd shed his old self, like a snake sheds its skin. He wondered, and not for the first time, what it had been that had changed him. He'd always been a serious boy, and he cared too much about everything. Perhaps that was what happened- Potter had ceased to care. That must be it.

Draco recalled a very specific incident- Potter had really bungled the assignment they'd had in Transfiguration that day. It was, Draco recalled, a very difficult lesson. Changing inanimate objects into edible food was tricky business. Somehow the oil lamp that Potter had been trying to transfigure into a roast turkey had just burst showering the entire class with bits of dry, overcooked meat. He'd leveled an especially scathing comment at the other boy. He'd expected an angry retort- instead Potter had laughed, and agreed with him! A light breeze could have knocked Draco over at that moment. Potter had simply gone with the flow, and shrugged it off.

Come to think of it, that had been the last Transfiguration class before they'd gone home for the summer. That summer Draco couldn't think about last summer without his jaw clenching so tightly it made his teeth ache. Somewhere deep in his secret heart, he'd hoped that he'd underestimated his parents. How naive he'd been to hope that Lucius would respect his decision not to marry, and not to take the Dark Mark. He'd hoped that he'd underestimated them; unfortunately, he'd actually overestimated them. He'd always thought the worst thing that Lucius could have done was kill him. He'd been wrong. 

Never in a million years had he dreamed that Lucius would disown him. However, if he thought about it logically, it made sense. After all, if he wasn't going to marry and produce an heir, he wasn't a suitable heir himself. He took a small amount of morbid pleasure in the fact that it meant Lucius had to father another heir. Lucius and Narcissa's marriage had been arranged, and they'd hated each other from the second they'd met. Draco could hardly stop himself from cackling in glee every time he thought of that. He imagined the conversation: Lucius saying "I don't like this any more then you do, so let's just get it over with." Narcissa would reply with something like "There is always Muggle artificial insemination. That way you don't actually have to TOUCH me." The word 'touch' would be spoken in complete revulsion. 

That small bit of humor wasn't any comfort. He hated himself even more then he hated everyone else. He had especially hated Harry Potter. If he hadn't existed, Draco never would have had to compete with him, never would have realized his own shortcomings. Lucius would have always been proud of him, and none of this ever would have happened. And he hated himself even more for thinking these things because he knew they were petty and hateful and that made him like his father, and that was something he absolutely did not want to be.

But most of all, he hated himself for being a coward; because even though he knew he'd done the right thing he still often wished he'd done the easy thing. 

The decision to slit his wrists had been a simple one when looked at in that light. It hadn't even really been a decision- it was just a natural progression, something that had to be. The pain of the blade on his flesh had been nothing at all compared to the emotional anguish he'd been through. However the cruel stab of irony he'd suffered when he'd realized that someone was bandaging his arms, and he'd opened his eyes and seen that it was Potter The pang of self-loathing he'd felt in that moment had been so strong and heavy it was a wonder that his heart hadn't stopped under its weight. The rhetorical question he'd muttered in that dark moment, "Why did it have to be you?" was the full expression of the terrible irony he'd suffered. 

Now, he was rather glad that Potter had kept him alive. He actually had the makings of a reasonably pleasant future ahead of him. For the first time in his life, he was grateful for something- grateful to be alive, grateful to Potter and Dumbledore for the chances they'd offered him. 

That had to be what was fueling his current inclination towards enjoying the small bits of time he'd been able to spend with the other boy. How quickly things could change. It didn't seem like it had been that long ago that he'd only been jealous of Potter- now he was jealous of the girl who was spending time with him right this very minute.

"He's straight. He has to be." Draco spoke aloud to himself, his voice rough and barely audible. He had to convince himself of that, though he wasn't sure why. A secret voice inside his head whispered coyly in return, 'He might swing both ways, you know.' 

"That's it. That's the absolute limit." He shook his head at his own weakness as he rose from his bed and silently got dressed. 

~*~*~*~

Tapping the correct knot on the Whomping Willow had been ridiculously easy. He'd expected the pitch-darkness of the secret tunnel. Stepping into the Shrieking Shack had given him the surprise of his life.

When he'd come up through the trap door, two people he could only describe as bouncers greeted him. One of them pulled a wand, and Draco was certain he'd been about to cast a Memory Charm on him. The other bouncer, who he recognized as being a Beater from the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, put a hand on the arm of the first. "He's on Harry's guest list. If Harry says he's safe, then he's safe." He was gestured forward, and on through the door at the other end of the room.

There must have been a Silence Charm on the room, because when he stepped through the doorway he was assaulted on all sides by the music. There must be an Enlargement Charm on it too- there was no way the Shrieking Shack was this big. He could almost see the huge quantities of magic floating in the air.

The music itself, for one- it was ethereal and dark... It was intimate, and sensual. The beat was hard and so deep he could feel its influence change the timing on his heartbeat; it made his mind wander. The lights in the room came from no discernable source. They changed constantly- one flashed bright white slightly off time with the beat, while the others seemed to change color as the melody of the music hovered and flowed. Conjured geometrical and kaleidoscope-like images hung suspended in the air, ghostly-transparent yet alive at the same time. The air itself veritably sparkled like glitter it contained so much energy. A sweet-smelling smoke hung in the air, making everything seem blurred and unreal. The whole effect was darkly hypnotic. 

Someone he'd never seen before groped him as he stepped through the doorway, and gave him a laughing kiss on the mouth before spinning away onto the dance floor. The dance floor itself was sea of flesh- nearly everyone present had torn off whatever top they'd been wearing. Girls undulated against their dance partners clad only in a bra and short skirts or tightly fitting trousers. Nearly all males present had abandoned their shirts, and those who were still wearing their shirts were soaked to the skin in sweat. 

There was something erotic about seeing all these people so free from inhibition. It was all grinding hips, exultantly uplifted arms and eyes glazed from the trance-inducing music and lights. Everyone was touching everyone, exploring everyone. Not more then a meter from him now, two girls kissed deeply. The fingers of one had twined in the other girl's hair, the remaining hand shoved up her skirt. Draco looked away only to have his gaze land on two boys on a couch on the other side of the room. The smaller of the two was sprawled on the couch, the other on his knees between his legs, his head bobbing up and down quickly, making it perfectly obvious what was going on.

He tore himself from that delectable sight, and searched the crowd of dancing teenagers for Potter. The floor was so packed with bodies, skin shining with perspiration, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to find him. The crowd shifted and suddenly parted as if it were the Red Sea, and Draco was Moses. 

There he was. His shirt was tucked into the back pocket of his low-slung trousers, the muscles of his bare chest gleaming slickly from sweat. His black hair was soaked to his forehead and the nape of his neck. He was also tonsil deep in the mouth of Seamus Finnigan. 

A stab of unmistakable jealous similar to the one he'd felt earlier when that Hufflepuff shrew had kissed him, lanced through his chest. This one was much worse- This time Potter was giving as good as he got, and the other person was a boy. In spite of the first emotion, a tiny bubble of joy was forming in the back of Draco's head. It didn't help that the green of jealousy twisting in his stomach was twinning about with the distinct royal purple of arousal. 

Potter's arms were wrapped tightly around the taller boy's neck. Finnigan's hands clutched his rear, grinding hips, and probably erections, together fiercely in time with the music's dark beat. Lungs starved for air, Potter broke the kiss. He threw his head back, rolling it fluidly on his strong neck. Snapping his face level again, his eyelids flickered open lazily, the whites of his eyes showing before dark lashes fluttered and the jade-green orbs opened fully. As if sensing Draco's perusal, they suddenly focused with blinding intensity, meeting his own silvery-gray gaze. 

Draco felt his breath catch in his throat. Potter's emerald-like eyes narrowed in an emotion he couldn't identify. His fingers tangled briefly in the hair at the nape of Finnigan's neck, before slanting his mouth over the other boy's again. All the while, his eyes stayed locked with Draco's own. 

And then suddenly Potter thrust Finnigan away from him and threw himself whole-heartedly into the throbbing rhythms of the dark, hypnotic music. Draco couldn't begin to describe the quality of his movements- sinuous and lithe, every bit of every limb was used to express what the music meant to him. Sometimes his hands wove intricate patterns in the air before him; sometimes they were raised above his head in exalting fervor. It was almost like he was riding on the melody of the music, as if it were his lover. 

He felt the pull as though someone had grabbed him by his shirt collar and was dragging him bodily. He found himself moving, almost against his will, towards where Harry undulated to the enthrallingly dark melody of the music pounding through the room.

Harry? So it's Harry now? It seemed appropriate, considering. He was seeing Harry Potter in a moment of his life that was so intimate that it must be secret, so unguarded that it simply was unmentionable. He had the distinct realization that that was why Harry came to these parties: Because he could be whoever and whatever he wanted to be here, and no one said anything to anyone about it afterwards. If they did, they would have to justify their own actions and indiscretions. 

And so Draco fallowed his own instincts as he found himself moved to the same plane of existence that Harry currently occupied. He saw the jade eyes flutter open again, as though they sensed his very presence. They acknowledged him when they reached out, welcoming him into their embrace. Those pale, strong arms coiled around his waist, pulling his hips to be flush with Harry's own. 

Draco distinctly felt the previously very solid walls of his inhibition crumble. He was sucked into the moment, into the very intense aura this place exuded. His consciousness seemed be to outside him, his body moving against Harry's, with and in time with Harry's. It was as intimate as sex, and almost as good.

He knew time was passing, but he wouldn't have been able to tell anyone how much, had they asked him. Draco's whole world had shrunk to fit only Harry and himself, the flashing of the lights, the sweet, heavily scented smoke swirling around them, and the amazing, ethereal music. 

Harry's hands slid up his chest, and twined about his neck, one hand coiling into the hair at his nape. Blunt fingernails scraped gently over the flesh just inside his hairline, down the back of his neck, and into the collar of his shirt. His lips parted in a surprised gasp, bright tingles of feeling turning over in the pit of his stomach. It was only when he felt damp lips on his own that he realized that his eyes had drifted closed.

The pressure of it was fleeting- they brushed directly over his open mouth, and shifted slightly to pull his upper lip between them. The tip of Harry's tongue slid silkily over the suddenly sensitized flesh, and Draco reacted in pure instinct. Finding Harry's lower lip placed conveniently at his disposal, he trapped it between his teeth and worried it, all the while stroking it with his tongue. 

Harry's body surged upwards against him, gasping into his mouth. Draco used this opportunity to tilt his head to one side and slide his tongue into Harry's parted lips. Most the kisses he'd shared had been battles, trying to claim the position of the one in control. Harry yielded to him, his tongue stroking his gently, not dueling. In fact, their lips were barely touching, and yet this kiss was more deeply moving then any kiss he'd ever experienced before.

Pulling away from him, Harry clasped his hands, threading long fingers through his own. He inclined his head towards the entrance. Draco found his head suddenly swimming as he pondered the meaning behind the gleam in Harry's eye.

It was strange how perspectives could change in the space of a week, a day, or even an hour or a few minutes. Last week Draco would have sneered in contempt had anyone told him this would happen. Now life had decided to chuck a bludger his way and had knocked him right of his broom. 

Four days ago, all that had changed to a morbid curiosity, and then to grudging respect. Earlier today, the curiosity had ceased to be morbid, and he'd found himself blindsided by the beginnings of attraction. It had been that curiosity that had brought him here tonight. Dazedly he wondered just how much he'd really known about Harry to begin with.

He'd always thought he'd had the other boy pegged: brave, serious, and loyal to a fault. He'd had no problems breaking the rules when someone he cared about was in danger. In short, he was everything that Draco had always been taught not to be.

But this Harry he was still all those things, but he was more then that too. He was passionate and uninhibited, and full of dark secrets Draco couldn't even begin to fathom. He had a feeling that this facet of his personality had only recently evolved. 

Draco found himself being pulled through the entrance and back into the secret tunnel that led into Hogwarts, away from the intimacy of the party, and into a different kind of intimacy- he was now alone in the dark with Harry. Before he knew it he was pinned, his back was pressed against the stones lining the walls of the tunnel, and Harry was kissing him again. This was different from before- now there was an almost desperate urgency behind Harry's lips. Before it had simply been a further exploration of the music, gentle, but thorough. Now their lips were sealed tightly together, tongues tangling deeply. 

Abandoning his mouth, Harry ran hot lips along the slender column of his throat, and nipped at the tiny cluster of nerves there, drawing a moan from Draco's open mouth. His fingers had threaded themselves through the hair at the nape of Harry's neck, clutching almost roughly at the silken strands, then trailing down over the bare skin of Harry's shoulders. 

Harry dipped his head even lower now; his tongue drew swirling designs over his collarbones while his fingers dexterously undid the buttons of his shirt. Before he knew it, the cold air of the tunnel hit his skin, his flesh prickling into the beginnings of goose bumps. Harry's hands were hot against his waist, and cool, damp hair brushed his chest as Harry leaned forward. Even though he knew what was going to happen next, the molten swirl of Harry's tongue over his cold nipple forced a delighted shudder through his entire body. 

Draco's brain was slowly shutting down. He forgot to think of anything, except that the boy he realized now that he'd secretly desired for years was running his mouth over every inch of his chest. The jumpy feeling he'd had in his stomach when Harry had walked into that robe shop all those years ago had been desire. How was an eleven year old supposed to know something like that?

Hazily, Draco registered that Harry had undone the button on his trousers, and was now dipping his tongue teasingly into his navel. Strong hands clasped his hips; Harry's tongue drew over the flesh of his belly, through the thin trail of fine blond hairs, and then nipped at the delicate flesh with his lips and teeth. Draco dug his teeth fiercely into his lip with a strangled growl when he felt that same hot open mouth pressed against the hard ridge of his erection, forcing hot breath through the cloth of his trousers. 

The hands resting at his hips suddenly clenched, and he felt Harry inhale deeply, as though trying to catch his scent through his clothing. 

"Sweet Merlin, do I want you, Malfoy."

That name had the force of one of Lucius's backhanded slaps. From the well of bitterness that he'd managed to bury just for a little while rose the thought, painful in its clarity: 'Even if we're together like this, I'm still just Malfoy to him'. Perhaps he'd overestimated Harry too. 

His eyelids were pressed together so tightly he was beginning to see colors blooming in the darkness. If only Harry hadn't said that, if only But he had, and it was too late.

~*~*~*~

It took Harry a moment to realize that he'd been shoved away. He blinked in confusion, seeing Malfoy's delicate face twisted in anger. The other boy was hastily buttoning first his trousers, then his shirt. He ran a shaky hand through his hair before turning and starting to head back toward the school. 

Harry stepped forward, intending to put a hand on his shoulder. "Malfoy, what --"

"DON'T call me that." The words were thrown over his shoulder, the line of his back rigid. There was more venom in his tone then Harry had heard in years.

"I can't apologize if I don't know what I've done wrong." Harry gestured frantically at the retreating form, trying to comprehend just what exactly he'd done to make the other boy so angry. 

Malfoy froze in mid-stride, his whole body trembling, but did not turn around. "Malfoy isn't my name anymore. I thought you, Harry, of all people, would understand what that means."

Understanding broke like the dawn across Harry's brain. Of course. Draco wasn't a Malfoy anymore, and had been through a great deal as a result. Abandoning that name meant abandoning everything that went with it too, with consequences Harry couldn't even begin to imagine. 

"You'd like me to call you Draco, then?" Harry's tone held just the slightest note of desperation. Something told him he couldn't let Draco go back to the castle like this. He didn't want to find him with his wrists flayed open sitting in a pool of his own blood again. Draco had paused once more, but this time, some of the tension had eased from his shoulders. He didn't reply; he seemed to be waiting.

"I'm sorry, Draco. I won't call you that again." Harry could only hope he'd said the right thing- the other boy had always been damn near impossible to read. It was probably a skill he'd picked up for his own survival. 

Obviously it had been the right thing, because Draco finally turned to face him again. "Alright then", he said slowly.

Silence descended crushingly into the tight confines of the tunnel. What else are you supposed to say to someone after you've apologized for such a ridiculous blunder? In the absence of anything else, Harry did the only thing he could think of: he went to the other boy and put his arm around him, burying his face in Draco's shoulder. For a tense moment, Harry thought he'd pull away- Draco's whole body had gone rigid again. After that moment passed, Draco must have realized that all he was going to do was hold him gently, Harry felt an arm snake almost tentatively around his waist.

"You know," Harry murmured after a moment into the warm shoulder, "I really don't know you at all." He pulled away enough to look the other boy in the eye. "I mean, I know what you've appeared to be since I met you, but I don't know you." Harry tried to pick out an emotion on the blank face in front of him. He was starting to feel like he was talking to a brick wall. 

"Would you like to?" With a start Harry realized that although his voice was perfectly steady as he spoke, Draco was not looking him in the eye. Ash blonde lashes obscured the silver orbs, as though they were afraid of his scrutiny. This struck him for some reason as being a huge gap in Draco's normally unreadable mask, almost as if

"Yes, I rather think I would." He hadn't realized at all that Draco was still tensed, until he felt all the muscles under his hands go liquid when they relaxed. The tiniest shiver ran cold, delicate fingers the length of Harry's spine; Draco had buried his chilled nose just under his ear and sighed deeply. Hot breath mingled pleasantly against icy flesh, creating a strange blend of sensations Harry hadn't ever thought to pair together.

They stood that way for a moment longer before Draco pulled away from him. Slender fingers ruffled his hair, and before he knew it, Draco had dropped a kiss on his nose, all while maintaining a perfectly serious face. Harry wanted to scream; how could someone's face portray a completely different attitude from his body? It was almost like he was schizophrenic! The difference between the public and private personas was going to drive him mad.

Meanwhile the 'public' persona was most firmly back in place- a golden eyebrow arching in promise, "We'll talk more tomorrow," lips curved slightly in the tiniest lopsided grin. Harry stood silent in the dark as he watched the other boy's form disappear into the deeper blackness further down the passage.

~*~*~*~  
Footnotes:

(1) Translated from Japanese by Cassiel, 


	4. True Faith 04

Title: True Faith (04/??)  
Author: Nicky Townsend (nicky@sacramentoanime.com)   
Pairings: HP/DM  
Rating/Warnings: I'm going to say R with leanings towards NC-17. Rating for sexual situations, attempted suicide, and (with the suicide attempt only) a great deal of romanticizing about blood and death. The sort of thing that inspires bad Goth poetry, I'm afraid. Oh- if you haven't noticed, this is SLASH. If you aren't here for young, hot boy-on-boy action, I suggest you run while you still can. Flames will be saved to light my cigarettes.   
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. All songs quoted are the property of the various artists that wrote them, and are used without permission. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All music quoted is the property of those with the talent to write it; which wouldn't be me.   
Summary: Draco's attempted suicide brings about many things- some good, some bad, and some very bad. He's forced to see the world in a different way, and to try to cope with what he sees.

~*~*~*~  
True Faith 04  
~*~*~*~  
"You can't change the world,  
But you can change the facts,  
And when you change the facts,  
You change points of view,  
And if you change points of view  
You may change a vote  
And when you change a vote,  
You may change the world."

~"New Dress"  
-Depeche Mode  
~*~*~*~

Bleary emerald eyes drifted open slowly, the ceiling of the tower remaining steadfastly blurred in the absence of his spectacles. Shafts of brilliant mid-morning light filtered in through the tiny gaps in his bed hangings, glittering motes of dust swirling lazily about the heavy red velvet drapes. The muscles of his legs were pleasantly sore as they always were in the aftermath of a good party.

The party. Oh god. Memory of yesterday's happenings flooded back to him in a rush of heat that made his feather comforter suddenly stiflingly hot. Harry kicked it away with unneeded ferocity, and settled flat on his back, limbs splayed widely. 

He wasn't quite sure what to make of it. He'd always thought he'd had the other boy figured out. Even in light of the events of the previous week, he'd still thought that proud, sneering, sardonic veneer was what Draco was really like. He'd never, never expected Draco to show up last night after he'd said he wasn't interested. But show up he had, and it had been strangely thrilling for him to be found in Seamus's arms. 

Draco's face had remained infuriatingly inscrutable. The only emotion Harry had been able to detect from across the room had been bored curiosity. Harry remembered the frustration that had risen in him like a tidal wave- he'd kissed Seamus again, before pushing him away. After all, he came to these parties to dance, not to be seen. He'd been pleasantly surprised when he'd realized Draco was walking purposefully towards him; his heart had leaped rather forcefully. Just the way that boy walked! The crowd seemed to part for him; either like Harry, just to watch him walk, or perhaps just because he simply exuded an aura of command. 

Dancing with him well, that had been heaven. The feel of that lithe, toned Seeker's body paired with a natural grace that Harry knew he'd never possessed It had been perfection in the purest sense of the word. Then, Harry had quite gracelessly opened his mouth and inserted his foot. Ah, well. He'd apologized and been forgiven. A sudden longing to see Draco again clenched in his chest.

Draco himself was the embodiment of the Forbidden Fruit for Harry; though he may have given up his name and his family, Harry doubted that anyone who hadn't seen how deep the cuts in his wrists had been would believe it. He would just have to explain to his housemates

On second thought, he couldn't explain to them. It wasn't his place to explain. Then again, if he didn't say anything, the whole school would know about it by dinner time; but then, the whole school would probably know about it by dinner time no matter what he said or did. They would probably assume that it had something to do with Draco's suicide attempt, and that Harry was just feeling obligated to continue his role as hero. 

He WAS obligated to continue to play hero- but it wasn't for Draco's sake. The illusion of having a hero made them feel safer; the game of playing hero made him feel worthwhile. Because when it really came down to it, it was sort of a game, one he'd committed to playing before anyone had even told him the rules, or before he'd known what the consequences of losing would be. And they, the people who looked to him as their hero, would look at his time with Draco as fraternizing with the enemy.

Well, the lot of them could think whatever they bloody wanted to. It wasn't any of their sodding business anyway. He had long since come to hate having to continue the hero game, but it made them all happy, and when they were happy they left him alone. And when they left him alone, HE was happy. They didn't ask him questions. He hated the questions perhaps even more then he hated the expectations. They were all full of "How are you holding up Harry?", "Are you getting enough to eat, Harry?", "Have you been sleeping alright, Harry?" or the worst, "Your scar hasn't been bothering you lately, has it, Harry?" If he heard that last one again anytime soon, he was going to kick the inquisitor in the bloody teeth. If it weren't for the fact that they left him alone when he did what they wanted, he would have given up the whole façade last year. And that's what they were now, all of them- a huge mass of nameless, faceless people all described by the bland but accurate words 'they' and 'them'. Every single one of them expected him to save their world from complete and utter destruction. He often wondered if anyone ever stopped to think of the sheer absurdity of the idea of the Wizarding World being saved by a mere seventeen-year-old boy? A boy who though had finally reached the respectable height of one hundred seventy-six centimeters, hardly weighed seventy-two kilos soaking wet? What that huge faceless 'They' didn't realize was that there was an eighty-five percent chance that they were sending him to his death. The fifteen percent chance of success was based heavily on ten percent luck, and the remaining five percent rested solely upon the single ace he had up his sleeve. His scar might as well have been an expiration date.

Well, he was going to do something HE wanted to do for a change, and fuck them ALL backwards and sideways if they didn't like it. More then likely, most of them would just smile and nod and let him do as he pleased, thinking they were humoring him, when it was really he that humoring THEM. Back once again to the massive nameless THEM. He didn't want to think about Them- by limiting them to only being 'Them'; they became less real to Harry, and therefore less to worry about. 

Draco was so vividly REAL he was blinding in intensity. He was real in the same way that Harry felt he himself was real. It had become obvious to him that people were made, defined, and broken by the pain they had to live with, and how they dealt with that pain. Those who did not know pain existed in a blank void that had no definition, and conclusively were not real. Those who had known true pain could appreciate that void for what it really was. Those who had known real pain envied the others their blissful ignorance. 

It was sometime last year that Harry had started to divide his world into things and people that were or were not real. Ron and Hermione were real- they had, to a much lesser extent, suffered along with him in Fifth Year. They had more of an idea of what it was that They expected of him. Neville was real too, more real by far then Hermione and Ron put together. Nobody ever gave Neville the credit he deserved; he had to be one of the most wonderful people Harry had ever met. He tried so HARD, and even when his failure seemed imminent, he STILL kept trying. He had suffered and lost so much, but was still willing to give everything he had left. When Harry had finally noticed these things, he'd made a point to become a better friend to him, and to include him when he, Hermione, and Ron did things together. 

Neville, Harry knew, wouldn't ask him any questions about the party once he heard about it. Ron would give him the third degree; he had no idea what Hermione would do. That was something else he'd decided after Fifth Year based on his experience at the Yule Ball with Parvati Patil, and his one horrific date with Cho Chang, was that women were nice to look at, but far too emotionally unstable. Their brains had to be wired differently or something; he just couldn't understand the logic that made them act as they did. 

Harry scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist. It was too early in the day to be having deep thoughts. He tried to reserve this kind of thinking for when he was properly awake; at least there was less chance that his mind would wander off and start thinking about things not relevant to his problem. The Great Faceless They was not his problem right now. His problem was what the people he actually cared about thought. 

As a whole, he'd avoided romantic relationships; things of that nature he'd limited to flings, and he liked it that way. He avoided creating any more strong ties to anyone then he already had. He simply couldn't bear to lose someone else. That, more then anything that Voldemort could ever do to him personally, would break him beyond recognition. The loss of Sirius had nearly done it as it was: that was a fraying, ragged gap in his soul that could never be closed or filled. He wasn't sure he wanted a relationship with Draco even now; though he was more inclined to allow such a thing to develop with Draco then he would have anyone else. It all came back to how 'real' a person was, and right now Draco was the most real person Harry knew. 

He had not explained to his three best friends that that was how he viewed the world now; he could see the looks of horror that greet him should he ever choose to enlighten them. Well, the looks of horror that Ron and Hermione would give him; Neville would look sad, and would try to understand. Perhaps that was another reason he was considering allowing a relationship to grow between himself and Draco. He sensed acutely that were he to tell Draco how he viewed the world that he would understand. Draco had also had unreasonable expectations placed upon him from the moment he took his first step; whatever Draco may have thought of himself, Harry thought that he was incredibly brave to break out of the mold that had been cast for him. This all brought him around to another very important question: Did Draco want any kind of relationship, or had he just been caught up in the mood of the party? He'd promised they would talk more today, but what did he mean? 

There had always been something fascinating about Draco, though until a week ago, Harry would have cut out his own tongue rather then admit it. It was an indefinable Something; it was the Something that made people listen when he talked, and do the things he asked without questioning why. It was also what announced instantly when he'd entered a room; Draco had, for lack of a better phrase, stage presence.

There was more to it then that. Part of his instant dislike of Draco had been spurred by the fact that he was gorgeous, and he KNEW it. There was also, when they'd first met anyway, the fact that Draco had everything Harry had always wanted. That these things had been given to someone who had so obviously done nothing to deserve them that had made Harry positively ill with jealousy. 

The intense dislike had mutated somewhat when he'd run into Draco's father in Flourish and Blotts before the beginning of Second Year. Knowing that his enemy didn't have the loving family he'd imagined had been strangely satisfying. As the years had passed though, he'd often forgotten about Draco for months at a time- Harry had had about five hundred million other, more important, things to worry about. Unless it was Quidditch: mentioning school matches would always inevitably come back to the rivalry between their two houses, made so much more intense by the rivalry between the team's two Seekers. 

He knew that he'd never really HATED Draco- he'd disliked him, sure, but hate was an emotion that had to have very solid foundation. You had to know a great deal about a person in order to be able to truly hate them. When it came right down to it, he knew very little about Draco; in fact he knew more about Lucius then he did about his son. The things he'd learned about Draco recently all pointed to him being nothing at all like the insufferable lout who'd sired him. 

Harry's stomach chose that moment to issue a growl so loud that it derailed his train of thought, reminding him that even if his brain wasn't completely awake, his body was. And it needed food. Thank god it was Sunday.

He threw himself forward into a sitting position, hands fisting in the air as he stretched and then yawned so widely he thought his jaw would unhinge. Fumbling on the surface of his bedside table, he located his spectacles, and jammed them onto his nose, blinking owlishly as the world came back into focus. 

Hopping stiffly from bed, he stripped out of his pajamas down to his y-fronts, and proceeded to dig through the clothing in his trunk in search of his last remaining clean shirt. It was another beautiful old relic he'd found at the charity store store. Instead of having sleeves that were cut straight around the shoulders like normal shirts, this one's brilliant red sleeves were cut diagonally up to the matching collar. The body of the shirt was white, and had the number thirteen silk-screened, also in red, on the front and back. People had always tried to convince him the number thirteen was unlucky. He figured that since he wasn't most people, what was normally an unlucky number should be lucky for him. He had a feeling he was going to need some luck today.

He finished dressing quickly; the rest of his dorm-mates were long gone by this time. After making his way down the winding stone staircase to the common room, he ducked into the bathroom briefly and wet his hair in a weak attempt to make it lie down. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Today, his hair stubbornly refused to lay down- it stuck out from his head at relentlessly obstinate angles. Sighing deeply, he dragged his fingers through the wet locks, aggravating them further. At least when it was wet, it looked like it had been arranged that way on purpose.

Once he was through the portrait hole, he took the quickest route to the Great Hall; his time spent with the Marauder's Map in his possession had been fruitful indeed. He knew nearly every secret passage in the castle, and every shortcut. He'd even found a few that the Map hadn't had. 

The lunch hour was nearly past by the time he strolled into the Great Hall. Almost against his will, he found his eyes traveling to the Slytherin table in search of that head of silky platinum hair. The subject of his perusal was in fact lounging at the table's far end, a mammoth book open in front of him, half-heartedly stabbing at his abused lunch with a fork. Draco seemed to know immediately that he was being watched: he looked up abruptly as though fearing an attack. Silvery-gray eyes lined in dark ash-blonde lashes met his from across the room, and the whole of his pale face transformed. Even, white teeth flashed as they bit a little nervously into his bottom lip then releasing the pinked flesh, the corners of his mouth turned up into a secretive grin, before giving him coy wink. Harry felt an answering grin light his own features, and he nodded his acknowledgments. 

There didn't seem to be any need to speak. That whole completely silent yet totally honest exchange had told Harry everything he'd needed to know. The absolute need to speak was gone, though he very much still wanted to. There were mysteries to be unraveled. However, he still had something to take care of before he could allow himself that luxury.

The Gryffindor table loomed almost menacing before him. It seemed almost that they had been waiting for him, because they were all still there: Ron, Hermione, Neville, Seamus, Lavender, Dean, Parvati and Ginny. It was time to bite the proverbial bullet. Deciding that he'd say nothing unless asked, he strode purposefully towards his house table.

He plopped down unceremoniously on the bench next to Ron, with a brief "Hullo!" before helping himself to the lamb stew. He dug in with gusto, but didn't fail to notice the silence that surrounded him, nor did he miss Seamus's slightly guilty expression. Ah. So that was how they'd found out.

Next to him, Ron cleared his throat loudly. "So," he began, "How was it last night?" They might as well have been conversing about the weather.

Harry careful chewed his mouthful of stewed potato before replying, "Fabulous. Music was better then usual. I think they found a different DJ last night; he was really good." Small talk. Let them bring it up. He slurped another spoonful of stew before gesturing down the table to Lavender. "You did a brilliant job on the lights this time, Lav." That was better; at least Lavender's stony expression had melted away, to be replaced by a flush of pleasure at the compliment.

Ron, however, plowed ahead. His tone was cold as he initiated the battle: "And snogging Malfoy? How was that?" A flush of anger was slowly creeping up over the flesh of his freckled neck from the collar of his shirt.

Harry froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. He sighed deeply and set his spoon down careful in his bowl, before looking up to meet the gazes of his friends. Seamus still looked guilty, while Dean was merely shaking his head in pity. Ginny's eyes seemed to be fixed on something only she could see while Lavender and Parvati had suddenly struck up a rather loud conversation about some bit of homework they needed to complete before tomorrow. Hermione apparently found the dregs of her stew fascinating- she was examining them as though they were the key to finding the Missing Link. Neville had looked up abruptly, startled; Ron was glaring at him so hard that Harry wouldn't have been surprised if he'd fainted from the intensity. 

Heaving another sigh, he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on. "He's different now." was all he said before picking up his spoon again and resuming his meal. 

"'He's different now'?" Ron blustered in rage, parroting his own words back at him. "You KNOW what he's like-!"

Harry looked up sharply, matching Ron's glare with one of his own. "No, actually, I DON'T know what he's like at all. And neither do you. None of us know ANYTHING about what he's really like. You don't have the foggiest fucking clue what he's been through, and I suggest you belt up and stow it until you find out. "

Eight jaws simultaneously dropped open, only to snap shut again with the audible clack of teeth hitting teeth. Ron's immediately fell open again, only to close once more. He opened his mouth yet again, this time apparently in an attempt to speak, only to discover that he was at a loss for words and closed his mouth again. He resembled nothing so much as a flounder that had somehow misplaced its watery home.

Several moments of silence passed, uninterrupted. It was Hermione that finally broke it. "Why don't you tell us what makes him different now? Help us understand," she asked gently. 

"It's not my pl-" Harry began irately, before a soft, even tenor came from behind him.

"Lucius disowned me because I refused the Dark Mark." Draco had appeared almost from nowhere, and his pale, elegant hand had come to rest comfortably on Harry's shoulder. Reaching up, Harry laid his hand over Draco's and gave it a squeeze of thanks and support. The gesture was not lost on the assembled crowd, and eight jaws tumbled open yet again. Draco faced them all calmly, his face betraying nothing. The only outward sign of nervousness was the slight trembling of his hand where it still lay familiarly on Harry's shoulder. 

Hermione was the first to recover from the shock, though she still looked as though someone had smacked her upside the head with something heavy. Her face screwed up momentarily in confusion before she began haltingly, "But doesn't that meanthat you" She trailed off, apparently unable to find the words she needed to complete her train of thought.

"That means I am no longer a member of the Malfoy family." Draco obligingly finished her half-vocalized idea. Everyone seemed to be chewing on this thought because no one spoke for the next few minutes.

"I don't believe it for a second." Ron finally announced, apparently bristling with what could only be defined as righteous indignation.

Harry could almost feel the familiar smirk slide into place on Draco's face behind him. "I'll show you the legal documents, if you like." he offered helpfully, his voice full of ironic amusement that spoke loudly of the lop-sided grin that was most assuredly on his face. 

"But why?" Ginny's confused voice came from a little ways down the table. Harry could tell that she was trying to put two and two together and was still somehow only getting three. 

"Oh, please." Draco scoffed. "You've met Lucius. You know what's he's like. "

Ginny shook her head. "No, I meant why'd you refuse the Mark?"

Draco gave her the most confounded expression he had in his vast repertoire of expressions. "Do you have ANY idea of what the initiation is like? Imagine for a moment what might go on; then imagine that description being preceded by your own father saying. "Oh, I have great news; you're to be initiated, and I'm sure it will be just lovely. I remember my own like it was yesterday: 'Insert horribly revolting ordeal here'." Draco finished this rambling explanation by making a great flourish in the air with his left hand as he spoke the word 'here'.

"He's still your father." Neville cut in quietly. "Don't you want to make up with him?"

"Make up with a father who beat me senseless whenever I made the slightest mistake? I think not!" Draco huffed indignantly before continuing. "I'd just as soon slit my wrists again."

"So you really did try to kill yourself? It wasn't just a rumor?" Parvati inquired with quiet disbelief. Draco wordlessly removed his right hand from Harry's shoulder, unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt, and pushed up his sleeve before offering up his wrist for Parvati and Lavender to inspect. The two quiet gasps echoed loudly in the nearly deserted Great Hall as the two girls noticed the length of the cut, and how deep it must have been to leave such a noticeable scar. Hermione stood up to get a look at it as well, then immediately sat back down, shaking her head silently.

"Didn't yer mum e'er try an' stop 'em?" Seamus's thick Irish brogue drifted up, somehow making the question seem harsher then it really was.

"Of course not. She enjoyed watching too much to ask him to stop." Hermione's face attained a pallor that even some of the castle's resident ghosts would have been jealous of, and Lavender looked positively ill. Even Ron had the grace to grimace in disgust at that moment. 

"Alright then." Dean, who had remained silent during the entire exchange, finally spoke up. "You can't be all bad, if it's like that." He stood, and offered his hand to Draco, who took it and shook it firmly twice. After releasing it, Dean held out his hand to Ginny. She stood up quickly, clasping the proffered hand. She gave Draco an appraising look, and Draco matched her gaze.

"Just don't make us regret this later, okay?" Her fiery-red head bobbed in a firm nod, and she and Dean turned and left the Hall. Seamus squawked loudly, and rushed after them, nearly tripping over the bench in his haste to stand up. 

"Harry!" Ron sputtered, "Have you forgotten that he threatened to kill you at the end of Fifth Year?"

"I didn't have much choice, you know." Draco hissed quietly, not giving Harry a chance to answer for himself. "It's what everyone expected me to do, and I had to keep up the act. In reality, I was really thankful for not having to deal with Lucius for the whole summer." 

Harry couldn't help but snerk into his pumpkin juice. He grinned widely, and turned to where Hermione and Neville were sitting opposite him. "Did that help you understand?"

Hermione glanced at Neville, who only shrugged. She seemed to think carefully about her answer for a moment; the longer she took the more apprehensive Harry began to feel about her reply. "I'm willing to give him a second chance." She finally said, her voice quiet, dark chocolate-colored eyes full of luminous seriousness. "I wouldn't wish on anyone the havoc you're going to cause when the rest of your house finds out." She finished, meeting Draco's silvery eyes, and offering him a tiny half-smile.

Draco gestured vaguely in the direction of the Slytherin table before whispering harshly, "Why do you think I haven't said anything to them? Although I think that now's a good a time as any to come out."

Without warning, Draco leaned forward and with gentle fingers brushing his jaw, tilted Harry's head back and kissed him. Harry thrilled instantly to the gesture; he knew with a certainty he couldn't quite describe that in this bold public display that Draco was severing his remaining ties to the world he had inhabited up until now. The commitment behind the gesture was immensely staggering.

Harry felt the beginnings of something swell inside his chest. His respect for Draco was being multiplied every second his mouth lingered on Harry's own. He returned the gesture with enthusiasm he hadn't felt in a very long time, his lips parting to allow Draco's tongue into the warm recesses of his mouth. His back and neck arched like a bow, he reached up to thread his fingers through the silky platinum strands at the nape of Draco's neck. The girlish-soft tips of Draco's long delicate fingers traced the arched line of his neck, just above Adam's apple, in the hollow under his jaw. Harry tried to stifle his gasp, but in the silent Hall it seemed appallingly loud. He hoped that his response made plain to the other boy, and to his friends for that matter, that he knew and understood the gravity of his decision. The moment passed in silence, and too soon, Draco pulled away to see what response this would garner. 

Neville was blushing to the roots of his hair. Ron, Harry was gratified to see, what staring in open, unabashed shock, the anger having drained from his face. He had a feeling that this had convinced him of how different Draco truly was from what they'd always thought in a way that nothing else could have. Hermione seemed to be transfixed, and was staring in unashamed fascination at Draco. Her dark eyes were curiously feverish, as though she was only seeing him for the first time.

Harry dared at that moment to glance across the hall at the Slytherin table. Only a few bodies still occupied it, but one of them happened to be Pansy Parkinson, who had until that very moment been conversing with Blaise Zabini on only God knew what. Both Zabini and Parkinson were staring in their direction in open, undisguised horror and mind-boggling shock. Though he didn't turn to check, he had a feeling that anyone else still present in the Hall who hadn't attended the party the previous night were staring in a like manner. In morbid curiosity, he forced himself to look up to the teacher's table. Only Professors Sprout, Vector, and McGonagall were present, but had not failed to notice the event that had just taken place. McGonagall caught Harry's eye; she smiled softly, a faint blush coloring her cheekbones. Nevertheless, she nodded in what Harry hoped was approval, her eyes twinkling.

"I still don't like him." Ron muttered darkly, glaring into the remains of his bowl of stew. Hermione chose that moment of inattention to whap him soundly upside the head. 

  



	5. True Faith 05

Title: True Faith (05/??)  
Author: Nicky Townsend (nicky@sacramentoanime.com)   
Pairings: HP/DM  
Rating/Warnings: I'm going to say R with leanings towards NC-17. Rating for sexual situations, attempted suicide, and (with the suicide attempt only) a great deal of romanticizing about blood and death. The sort of thing that inspires bad Goth poetry, I'm afraid. Oh- if you haven't noticed, this is SLASH. If you aren't here for young, hot boy-on-boy action, I suggest you run while you still can. Flames will be saved to light my cigarettes.   
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. All songs quoted are the property of the various artists that wrote them, and are used without permission. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All music quoted is the property of those with the talent to write it; which wouldn't be me.   
Summary: Draco's attempted suicide brings about many things- some good, some bad, and some very bad. He's forced to see the world in a different way, and to try to cope with what he sees.

~*~*~*~ 

True Faith 05 

~*~*~*~ 

"And I believe in Love   
And I know that you do too   
And I believe in some kind of path   
That we can walk down, me and you   
So keep your candles burning   
And make her journey bright and pure   
That she will keep returning   
Always and evermore   
Into my arms, O Lord."   
  
Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, "Into my Arms"   
~*~*~*~   
It was immediately after the exchange at the Gryffindor Table that Draco chose to kidnap Harry, and evacuate to a safer venue. Pansy was glaring at him in a way that promised a slow, agonizing death through the most excruciating torture she could devise. He would have to strengthen the wards around his bed this evening, and start sleeping with his wand under his pillow. 

He wasn't sure what had possessed him to abandon his own safety, and cross the gulf of space to the Gryffindor Table. He'd seen the atmosphere at the other end of the Hall change the instant Harry had sat down; Harry's posture had subtly shifted to that of a man staring valiantly towards the block where he was about to be beheaded. 

He'd feared for a moment that Harry would deny everything, but it became obvious that nothing of the kind was happening; he could see that from Weasley's ramrod-straight spine. Granger, who was sitting across from them, looked alternately horrified and morbidly curious. When it became obvious that neither Harry nor Weasley were backing down from the confrontation, Draco found that he was traversing the distance between himself and Harry without a single thought as to how this would affect him later. 

He'd found himself standing behind Harry so quickly it was like he'd Apparated there, his hand coming to rest on Harry's shoulder. He couldn't believe the things he was blurting out in both his and Harry's defense. He didn't particularly care what they thought of him, but he knew that Harry cared very much. It was only for Harry's sake that he had done what he had. 

A sudden rush of warmth suffused his entire body. He'd never done anything for anyone's sake, other then his own, until just a few moments ago. This feeling… it was new, and completely unexpected. He felt GOOD- proud of himself. Harry had looked up at him in those few moments, first in shock, and then with great relief mixed with a vague joy. He had no words to describe this new feeling- it tingled on the backs of his forearms, and all the way from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine. It felt like a strange mixture of excitement and nervousness that had distilled together to create an entirely new emotion. 

In the space of only a few months, his entire world had undergone an alarming change. Although the more he though about it, and of late it was ALL he thought about, he could see nearly all the way back to where the path started. He supposed he began to question things when Harry refused to shake his hand. The path to where he was now spiraled outward from that point like Dorothy on the Yellow-Brick Road . 

Where he was now: they were in an unused classroom somewhere, Harry and himself both panting to catch their breath from the long sprint up many flights of stairs. Harry had draped himself over the surface of a desk, his chest heaving, arms dangling off the sides. If possible, the other boy's hair was in even more wild disarray then usual, and his cheeks were suffused with the color of a healthy flush. His eyes seemed even more impossibly green then usual. Magnified from behind his spectacles, they shone with near feverish vitality and joy, alive and so very real in this incredibly sharp moment. He hadn't seen this kind of lucidity staring back at him from the depths of Harry's eyes since… well, since Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup in their Third Year. 

'Holy Morgan, mother of Mordred… Did -I- do that?' 

His last thought hit him so hard it was almost like a physical blow, and his throat closed in sudden emotion. He nearly forgot to breathe and only remembered that he had lungs when he began to feel light-headed. His whole body tingled, and he could only return Harry's wide grin, feeding off the other boy's intensity. Harry seemed like he was truly THERE for the first time in years, and the thought that he might have been the one to return him… it took his breath away. Never in his entire life had he been looked at in such a way, had he felt so important, or valuable, or needed, or… The feeling grew and churned with such strength in his chest that he was amazed his lungs had room to breathe at all. He had no idea what it was, but it was wonderful. He'd never known that giving and receiving could be the same thing. 

~*~*~*~ 

Pansy Parkinson did the first thing that came to mind when she saw Draco bolt out of the Great Hall, with the Boy Wonder in tow: she headed straight to the office of Professor Snape. He'd be able to sort this out, if anyone could. It HAD to be sorted. There had to be something wrong: a curse, a love potion, something. There had to be something to explain this behavior. 

Draco's odd behavior had become far more pronounced at the end of Sixth Year, though he'd started acting oddly in very subtle ways as far back as Third Year. She'd known Draco all their lives; they'd been betrothed since her first birthday. 

It had been a terrible shock to her when her father had told her of the letter from Lucius, stating that the Malfoys would be unable to fulfill their obligation, and that the situation was quite beyond his control. There was no elaboration as to why; for Lucius to admit that anything at all was beyond his control spoke of much deeper problem. In their society having different preferences, as Draco so obviously did, was not allowed to interfere with familial responsibility. Something had happened to deem him unsuitable for marriage. This was even stranger because Draco was an only child; normally in these circumstances the responsibility would be handed to next oldest son. 

But there was no other son, or even a daughter for that matter. Did Lucius prefer to end a family line that went back uncounted generations rather then allow Draco to continue it? What could he have possibly done that was that bad? Even having a thing for Harry Potter wasn't that bad. The worst thing of all was that she cared- Her mother had advised her years ago that love had nothing to do with a successful marriage, and that it was often its downfall instead. She had been terribly hurt by the letter from Lucius, and it had nothing to do with the dishonor he had shown her family. It would be no problem at all for her parents to find her another potential husband of suitably pure blood. Had nothing gone wrong, they would have been married immediately after finishing school. 

The honor of becoming a Malfoy was denied her. She had wanted very much to be Draco's wife; she had, quite against her will, come to love him over time. He was the sort to suffer in silence, all the while putting on a sardonic, self-assured mask. Because she knew him so well, his pain from behind that mask had been nearly palpable to her, although his suicide attempt had taken her completely by surprise. 

When Professor Snape had spoken to the gathered house about the near-tragedy, she'd been totally baffled, along with everyone else. However, as she'd thought about it later that night behind the comparative safety and silence of her emerald green velvet bed-hangings, she remembered the letter from Lucius; first their engagement was canceled, and now they were being told that Draco had slit his wrists nearly to the bone? 

She obviously didn't know Draco as well as she had thought. 

The door to Professor Snape's office was as imposing as an inanimate object could possibly be. It was not ornate or beautiful as one might expect, but was of thick, stout oak planks banded together in solid iron. The door itself had to weigh as much as she did, and probably dated back to the time of the illustrious Salazar Slytherin himself. It had been stained nearly black from the smoke of fireplaces and torches, potion fumes, and the accumulated dirt on the hands of thousands of students over the many hundreds of years. There were several deep scars on the door as well; you could tell their age by the color of the stain in the wood- the darker the stain, the older the scar. The oldest one looked to have been made by a battle-axe, and was stained to nearly the same dark shade as the door itself. The newest ones were pale, and stood out painfully- they couldn't be more then a few years old. They looked distinctly as if someone had used the door to practice their aim with throwing knives. Pansy supposed that there were a great many people who would enjoy using the Potions Master for target practice, but would settle for his office door if he were not available. 

Pansy lifted her arm and rapped smartly on the forbidding door. Almost immediately, she heard it unlatch and swing open quickly and silently, as though it weighed nothing at all. "Enter!" The dark, velvety voice of her Head of House bellowed, echoing eerily off the thick stone walls. She had always been just a little afraid of Professor Snape, and with good reason: anyone who had the know-how to create poison that had neither taste nor smell and left no signs in your blood or urine should be feared. She closed her eyes for a moment, cleared her mind and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the ordeal to come. 

Professor Snape had and probably would always be an enigma; students and staff alike were never able to find any sort of neutral ground to approach him on. He wasn't an attractive man; or not at first, or even fifth glance at least. He probably cleaned up nice, were he to try- he had some attractive features, the most obvious being his fabulously dark and sultry voice, but the man simply did not have eyes for anything but his potions. Pansy thought he was a prime example of the phrase "There is a fine line between genius and insanity." 

Pansy made her way as calmly as possible to the far side of the office and stood nervously in front of the massive well-polished and lavishly carved cherry-wood desk. There were no loose papers in this office- one wall was lined exclusively with filing cabinets, and everything was labeled meticulously, separated by subject; Research and Class. Research was broken down by "Successful" and "Unsuccessful" and then further by the experiment's goal. Class was broken down by the year, then by student in alphabetical order, then First through Seventh Year. After being forced to file homework during a detention, she'd realized that Snape must have every homework assignment turned in from the beginning of his teaching career. She'd made certain to never to get another detention from him. 

The man was an insufferable pack rat, but at least he was an obsessively organized pack rat. Currently, he was a pack rat that was eyeing her with increasing disdain from down the length of what was obviously a nose that had been broken at least twice. Somehow that nose, though slightly crooked, maintained a prideful elegance that allowed you to ignore the fact that it WAS crooked. Pansy sincerely hoped that the Professor's eyes were not portals to his soul; if they were, the Professor's soul existed in alternate states of Hell-wrought conflagration, or cold bleakness so frigid it made the Antarctic look like a nice place to pass the Christmas Holidays. 

Presently it was the cold bleakness that was glaring at her from down that strangely elegant nose. Struggling not to fidget under the perusal of the depthless black eyes, she began to plead her case. "I think there is something wrong with Draco." She began. 

A remarkably well-shaped black eyebrow arched sardonically. "Ah. I had thought that would be obvious even to you, Miss Parkinson. I assure you, I am aware of the problem." The deceptively delicate and pale spidery fingers of one hand waved a little flourish in the air to emphasize that point before joining its twin to form a steeple together in front of his face in what was very obviously designed to look like attentiveness to those not paying attention. 

She, however, was paying attention. He was getting ready to toss her out on her ear; she heard it in the tone of his voice. "I don't mean the suicide attempt, Professor. I think he might have been hexed, or…" 

"Or?" His considerable patience was rarely wasted on mere humans, and Pansy could tell she'd nearly used up her quota. Professor Snape had a way of making you feel incredibly stupid, and then DARING you to prove him wrong. 

"Or, perhaps someone slipped him something in a drink ." Pansy finished, making sure her voice didn't tremble and reveal that she was less then certain with her conclusion. 

"With what evidence do you come to me with this theory, may I ask?" The nearly sickening politeness with which he enunciated every word translated to 'I demand to know why you are wasting my time,' in Snape-speak. 

"I just saw him kissing Harry Potter in the middle of the Great Hall." There. Even Snape looked mildly surprised at that. He pressed one long elegant hand to his forehead briefly, and his mouth tightened. If it hadn't been for one corner of his mouth stubbornly twitching upwards… Pansy was now certain that someone had slipped something into the dungeon's well water. Professor Snape simply did not chuckle, or ever had to struggle to suppress such. That or someone had Polyjuiced into him. Evil weirdness. She swore she saw him bite down on the inside of his cheek, because he sobered instantly. 

"I assure you that there is nothing wrong with Draco, outside of his bad taste in company." Pansy felt pure hopelessness crash down on her as the Professor picked up with deliberate slowness the large volume he'd been perusing when she'd knocked on his door. 

Well then. That had gone badly. 

~*~*~*~ 

The Slytherin Common Room seemed darker then usual when Pansy arrived back. It was forbidding even in broad daylight; not that any daylight could make its way down into the depths of the dungeon that the Common Room and all the dorms occupied. 

Blaise was sprawled out gracefully on one of the leather couches that were strewn about the room, waiting for her to return. Sitting up a little straighter, Blaise pulled her skirt down to her knees from where it had ridden up. 

"What did the Professor have to say?" Blaise enquired, draping one arm elegantly over the arm of the couch. Anyone else could have been accused of posing; for Blaise it was just natural. 

Snorting ungracefully, Pansy replied, "Basically, he told me to shut my gob and clear off before he hexed me." She turned away from Blaise's observant gaze; though Pansy doubted that Blaise missed the gleam of unshed tears that had refused to be stifled. She heard the creak of the leather as Blaise rose from the couch and the dull clicks the heels of her shoes made against the cold stone of the dungeon floor. Warm arms circled her from behind, one above her breasts, one around her waist. She could just barely repress the sob that was struggling to break free from her chest. 

"He doesn't deserve you." The warmth of Blaise's quiet words against her cold ear finally pulled the brewing sob from the depths of Pansy's chest. 

"I've loved him for years. And suddenly, he's a completely different person…" Pansy trailed off, and turned in Blaise's arms. She tucked her face into Blaise's neck, and sniffed before continuing. "I wonder if the letter from Lucius and Draco's suicide attempt were connected?" she mused quietly. 

Blaise gave her a squeeze before pulling away and took her hand, leading her back towards the couch. Seating herself at the far end, she pulled Pansy down so that she was lying on her back, her head resting comfortably on Blaise's lap. 

Pansy closed her eyes, and tried to allow Blaise's delicate fingers gently stroking just above her ear to relax her. She tired to force all her thoughts away, so she wouldn't have to look at them. If anything this made the hard, cold knot in her chest tighten. She couldn't stop the prickle of welling tears from forming painfully behind her eyes. They leaked out steadily, as blood flowing from a cleanly sliced vein. 

Was the revolting, frigid coldness what Draco had felt when he'd decided he wanted to die? If it was, she could understand. This coldness, the… tattered gap… It wasn't quite pain, it was just… empty. It was like waking up in a bathtub full of ice, with some of your organs missing. 

What she didn't understand was WHY. It was the why of the whole situation that was making this as bad as it could possibly be. This told her that Draco cared nothing for her at all, in fact, hardly acknowledged her existence. Every time something had gone horribly wrong she had tried to be there for him, tried to understand why he acted as he did. Was it something that she'd done or said? Had she hurt or offended him in some way without her knowing she had done so? 

Initially, she'd hated the arrangement. She'd known Draco all her life, though she had always avoided him when they were children. In fact, most people had avoided him. He'd always been a cruel child, the sort that would steal or break other people's toys given even the slightest chance. 

After the announcement, she'd been forced to spend a lot of time with him. Slowly, over many years, she had realized that all Draco's posturing and hateful attitudes were because he was missing something else. When she freely shared her things he didn't break them, or feel the need to steal them. When you gave things to Draco freely, he treated them with reverence, and gave them back in one piece. 

He seemed to act in extremes to everything, though when you realized the pattern his brain worked in, they were easy to predict and control. When they'd started school and they were sorted into the same house, he was even truly nice to her. She'd always gone along with his various plots to torture and humiliate the Gryffindors, even when she knew from the outset that they were doomed to failure. 

She really had thought that she had made progress with him- he wasn't an easy person to love. When he'd needed someone to talk to, he had always come to her. Vince and Greg, loyal though they were, were both dumber than a box of rocks, and twice as dense. 

She had been thrilled when he'd asked her to the Yule Ball Fourth Year. They'd had fun; she thought- or at least she'd had fun. As she thought about it now, Draco had seemed rather blank the entire time. He changed, somehow, that year. She couldn't point to any one specific thing and say it was different. 

Except his way of addressing his parents- he'd started calling them by their first names. She'd thought that was strange, but not overly so- at first she had thought it was a respectful thing. Slowly she had come to realize that every time she heard Draco speak of them, his face adopted the expression of one who had just eaten something disgusting. 

Draco was one big stack of mysteries; you'd pick one up to examine it, turn it over in your hand to look at the details, and realize that there was another one underneath the first. He made you feel like you were running around in circles. Twisted in knots. Cold… so cold. The tears continued to trail slowly and gently down her cheeks, soaking into the coarse fabric of Blaise's uniform skirt. 

~*~*~*~ 

Blaise was afraid. She'd never seen anyone like this. Pansy had curled up with her head in her lap, her hips twisted so that her legs fell to the side while she was still face-up. Her hand rested next to her face, her fingers curled in such a way as to resemble the legs of a dead spider. She neither moved nor spoke, though silvery tears trailed steadily over the flesh of Pansy's pale cheeks, rolling down to moisten Blaise's skirt. 

She did not shake with sobs, as Blaise would have expected her to. The most frightening part was that her eyelids had not so much as fluttered in the time they had been here. Blank and slack: it like Pansy was willing herself to shut off, to tune out. 

Blaise continued to stroke the hair at Pansy's temple gently, loathing Draco with all her soul for doing this to Pansy. They had known each other even longer then Pansy had known Draco; they had been best friends as far back she could humanly remember. Draco had always been a wretched little brat, expecting everyone to defer to and make exceptions for him. Although they had been engaged practically since Pansy had been born, Blaise remembered when she'd found out about it. 

She'd been invited over to the townhouse that the Parkinson's' kept in the section of London that had been fashionable in the Wizarding Community at the time. Blaise's mother had been invited too, although she didn't come when she had found out that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy and their son Draco would also be there. It had been Pansy's ninth birthday, and there had been a small dinner party for the occasion. Why they had chosen the ninth birthday to make the announcement was beyond her- it had something to do with it being a multiple of three, and therefore an auspicious number. It was that night that Pansy's father, glowing with pride, had stood up at the head of the table, and lightly tapped his wine glass with his fork. The adults had all been quite pleased with the announcement, though none of the children present were all that impressed, or amused in the slightest. 

That night, Pansy had crept into bed with her, and pulled her into a tight embrace. Her face damp and swollen from crying, she had said, "I don't want to marry Draco. He's mean. I want to marry you instead!" This was a memory Blaise held very dear. As the years had past, she had held onto that memory. As Pansy adapted to the idea of becoming a Malfoy after they finished school, Blaise had kept it close to her heart, bringing it forth when the pain of seeing Pansy pine after Draco became too much. And now this. 

That Draco didn't like women did not come as any kind of shock to Blaise. He had always treated women dreadfully, even his own mother. Women threw themselves at him, and he had continually brushed them off, always going to the social functions persons of their status were expected to attend without a date. Then at the beginning of this year, Pansy received that letter from Lucius Malfoy. Draco had been ignoring absolutely everyone, and then attempted to off himself, only to miraculously survive and take up with the likes of Harry Potter. One would almost think he was ashamed of his heritage! No matter what had happened to him, she couldn't forgive anyone, even the Dark Lord himself, for hurting Pansy like this. 

The grief-stricken girl in her lap still had not moved, and instead of improving, seemed to be slipping into light catatonia. "Pansy?" Blaise stilled her hand in its soothing gestures, but all she received was silence. Blaise firmly gripped Pansy's shoulder and gave her a gentle shake: nothing. 

"Pansy!" There was no response. "That selfish bastard. He doesn't deserve you…I won't let him get away with this." Blaise felt tears come to her own eyes looking at the unresponsive girl in her lap. "Why couldn't you love someone who would love you in return?" 

Blaise let her fingers trail gently from the widow's peak at Pansy's hairline, tracing over an elegantly arched eyebrow, across a sculpted cheekbone, and down to the delicate jaw-line. A patient hand cupped the other girl's chin in her palm, and leaned over hesitantly to touch her lips to those of her best friend whom she had loved for as long as she could remember. 

Pansy's lips were cold, but quickly heated. The skin was just as smooth as she'd always imagined it would be. Very suddenly, the lips of the other girl parted, causing Blaise to freeze where she was. 

This was it. She'd though Pansy was too far gone to know what was going on; she'd taken advantage of her friend. 

Blaise had never told ANYONE how she felt for Pansy. In their circles, it was one thing for the men to take lovers of their own sex, but it was unheard of for women. Even still, it was unacceptable for such a reason to prevent them marrying, as Blaise suspected it had Draco. 

She maintained pressure but did not deepen the kiss; the shock of Pansy's lips moving against hers had made it impossible for her brain to function normally. Against all odds, here it was; what she had meant as a chaste, friendly kiss was quickly turning into something else entirely and it wasn't she that was doing it. The hand that had been resting so morbidly next to Pansy's face had come up to twine in Blaise's hair, fingers threading through the thick strands, while her fingertips gently massaged into the nape of her neck. The tip of her tongue was gliding gently along the fold created by Blaise's sealed lips, questing for entrance. 

Blaise pressed her eyes closed fiercely, and colors bloomed like spring flowers behind the thin veil of her eyelids. Did Pansy have any idea of what she was doing to her? Hesitantly, she allowed her lips to part, and the kiss to deepen. Blaise straightened up a few short moments later, and found Pansy's eyes intently on hers. 

"Pansy, I…" 

"Make me forget him. Please." 

Damn you, Draco Malfoy. 

~*~*~*~ 

It had taken a goodly amount of time for them to catch their breath. Partially, this was due to the fact that they were both talking constantly, and laughing somewhat manically over the others' escapades. Draco realized over the course of their conversation that he was in much the same position as Harry- he really knew next to nothing about him, when it came right down to it. Harry too had a face which he presented to the general public, and yet another to his friends. At the same time as noticing this parallel between their personalities, Draco couldn't help but wonder if what he was seeing now was just another face, or if this was really and truly HARRY. He knew what he'd seen last night was; or more accurately, he sensed powerfully that was who Harry truly wished he could be. 

They had been talking for what seemed like hours, relating stories and experiences that dated back as far as each of them could possibly remember. In many ways Harry was far more worldly then Draco, and yet very proletarian in some of his likes and dislikes. He looked for a moment like he would lose his lunch when Draco had said he liked caviar ("Fish eggs? People eat that rubbish?") And sushi ("RAW? Bleck!"). 

Harry, he could tell, had been surprised when he'd learned that Draco read Muggle literature like it was going out of style, and that his favorite writer was Oscar Wilde. 

"We can forgive a man for making a useful thing so long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All Art is Useless.(1)" 

When Draco had quoted this excerpt, Harry had looked confounded, and demanded that he explain it to him. 

"It's like this", he'd said to Harry, "Useful things are created out of necessity. These things are used in everyday life, and therefore become a fixture. Why should you admire the functionality of your wand? They simply ARE. All wands do the same thing, essentially. In that respect they differ not at all. It is another thing entirely to admire the beauty of the carving of each wand individually. Elaborate handles do not enhance a wand's performance; they are merely for the pleasure of the eye of the user." 

He'd seen understanding flicker across Harry's eyes. "I'd never thought of it that way. 

Draco had smiled, in a secretive sort of way, at that. "I rather think very few people do. That is one of the major reasons why Muggles irritate me- they create a great many useful things, and admire them shamelessly. I think that is pure egotism! It is different if you can manage to make each useful thing a work or art in its own right. Paintings, music and literature are all positively useless, but they stir the soul nonetheless for it, don't you think? 

"I don't think so at all!" Harry's brows had furrowed, and he was gesticulating rather wildly with his hands, as he sought to vocalize the half-formed idea. "Music, especially. Modern music carries so much meaning- it often speaks with far more truth than the news. News is altered to attract readers, whereas music is solely one persons' honest opinion of events, thoughts, and feelings. Poetry is the same way. That is merely one person's views, unclouded. You can tell so much about an individual by their poetry. 

"For example, Poe (2)- He had to have been a squib! It was obvious that he was horribly bitter about it. Lewis Carrol (3) was positively mad. Anyone who's read "The Jabberwocky" can tell that. Yeats (4) fancied himself a prophet, you know." 

Draco had stared at Harry in quiet disbelief, all the while thinking that this was absolutely wonderful. He could tell from Harry's posture that he was having similar thoughts on the matter; their own social positions were such that people tended to agree with them no matter what they may have thought privately. It was wonderful to have someone who actually had the brains to challenge them and was willing to do so. He supposed that he shouldn't be overly surprised. Harry had always challenged him; why should now be any different? 

They fell into a strange sort of comfortable silence. Draco found himself chewing idly on the nail of his index finger, gazing around the strange classroom, his mind blank. Very slowly, the details of the classroom materialized in his conscious. 

"Harry, is this the Muggle Studies classroom?" 

"No, why?" 

"The bookshelves in here are lined with books by all the authors we've been talking about." 

After glancing quickly around the room, the life that had been sparkling in Harry's eyes died a quiet death. "I can't believe I didn't realize it. This is the Room of Requirement. I haven't been in here since Fifth Year. This is where I taught the DA meetings." 

The abrupt change in Harry's demeanor was horrifying. His face had become slack, his brilliant green eyes now taking on the cast of an old bottle that had not been dusted in at least ten years. Broad shoulders drooped with unfathomable weight, and he curled in on himself. Harry's thin arms twisted together bonelessly, palms clasped, the knuckles of his long knobby fingers white, resting his jaw on his twined digits. He'd just watched Harry age twenty years in thirty seconds. A freezing cavity opened in Draco's chest, the previous warmth sucked away like it had never been there. One simple question or wrongly-spoken statement could do so much damage. 

He reached forward and with careful fingers gently tilted Harry's chin up; he didn't miss the flinch as Harry struggled to meet his eyes. "You changed at the end of Fifth Year. Tell me what happened." 

Raw pain like that of a rusty knife wound flickered over Harry's eyes. "Sirius died." Harry tore his face away from Draco's fingers. The muscles along his jaw line clenched, his throat working convulsively. "It was my fault. " He finished finally, his voice breaking, hardly above a whisper. 

Ouch. This was going to be difficult. Draco knew from recent experience that talking did not necessarily make you feel better. Oftentimes, if forced the event or thought to solidify and make itself more real, and that made it that much more painful. Sometimes things are easier to deal with when nobody knows; that way you can pretend it was all a horrible dream. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he just waited patiently. 

"My scar hurts when Voldemort is feeling very strongly about something." Harry spoke very slowly, deliberately. The words seemed to force themselves from the depths of his chest, like he was ridding his stomach of unneeded bile. "Fifth Year it got worse, and I started to have visions. Voldemort realized the connection and lured me to the Ministry with a vision of Sirius being tortured. 

"I'd told Dumbledore about the visions. He had Snape teach me to block them. Except, I didn't practice; I didn't try. Then I messed up, and Snape wouldn't teach me anymore." 

"So that Remedial Potions line was just that." 

"Right, a line. I was convinced that Sirius was dying every second I wasted. I tired to contact him, and his house-elf lied to me and told me he wasn't there. I panicked and rushed off to the Ministry with Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny and Luna. 

"He wasn't at the Ministry either. The Death Eaters were waiting for us. We were very lucky that the others came when they did. Otherwise all of us would be dead. Except me, since I seem to be able to live through anything out of pure, dumb luck. Sirius died when he fell through this weird portal thing in the Department of Mysteries as he was fighting Bellatrix LeStrange. If only I had done things differently, practiced what Snape was trying to teaching me…" Harry's voice trailed off into silence. 

"I think I'm missing something. What was Sirius Black to you?" Draco knew that Black hadn't been the one to kill all those Muggles- the fact that Peter Pettigrew was alive made that obvious. Also, logically, that meant that Black couldn't have been the one to betray Harry's parents. 

"My Godfather." A single silvery tear trailed through the perpetual five o'clock shadow on Harry's jaw. Broken. That's what Harry had been through the last year; broken nearly beyond repair. It was like he was being held together by cheap glue, and right now that glue was dissolving quickly under too much strain. 

Harry straightened abruptly, and dragged his fingers harshly through his hair, before pushing his spectacles up against his eyebrows and scrubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. "I shouldn't be telling you this. You've got your own problems." 

"You had seemed to forget about yours when you were busy keeping anymore of my blood from off the floor. Maybe I'm forgetting about my problems right now." Draco couldn't help but remember how happy they'd been only a few minutes ago; happy because he'd done something to make Harry happy, and that had created a kind of ricochet effect. It had bounced between them, gathering strength and now the bleakness was doing the same thing. 

Harry eyeballed him skeptically, his face darkening. "This wasn't a good idea. People who care about me always die. I'd better clear off." The desk creaked as Harry stood up, stretching his denim-clad legs, before turning for the door. 

Now it was Draco's turn to wrap himself in his own arms. "No one ever cared for me at all." Harry's fingers froze on the doorknob in the act of twisting it open. Slowly he turned and sagged against the door, sliding down to sit on the cold stone floor. 

Elbows resting on his knees, Harry pushed his spectacles up again and dug at his eyes with his palms. "What do you want from me? Do you want my guilt and inadequacy, my fear and my bitterness? Do you really want to know those things intimately?" 

"I want someone to know ME; someone to understand me. Don't you want the same thing?" 

Harry pulled his hands from his face quickly and peered at him suspiciously. "I don't know. No one has ever tried to really understand me before." 

"I asked you yesterday if you wanted to know me, and you said yes. Is it that much of a problem for me to return the favor? You said that people you care for always die; I would already be dead if you hadn't come along, remember? " 

"Is this because I saved you? You don't owe me anything." 

Draco cocked a sardonic eyebrow at that. "No, you moron. It's because we're alike in a lot of ways. Neither of us had a family that cares about us. We don't have any friends who really understand us; we have worshippers. Both of us were expected to do things we wanted no part of. The fact that you happened to save me from making a ridiculously permanent mistake just made me realize what we already had in common." 

The beginnings of a sheepish smile graced Harry's face. "I don't have much to lose at this point, besides my own life, do I? 

Draco couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Note to self: If all else fails, be sarcastic." He heaved himself ungracefully away from the desk, and moved to where Harry had fallen to the floor. "A hand up?" 

Harry took the hand, and allowed Draco to haul him to his feet. Immediately, Harry wrapped his arms around Draco's waist and buried his face in the side of his neck. 

"Thank you." Harry's muttered against his neck, lips ghosting over the pale flesh. 

A tiny shiver danced the length of Draco's spine at the soft lips speaking against his throat. He took what he hoped was a discreetly deep breath, before draping his own arms around Harry in turn. "What are you thanking me for?" His breath gusted warmly over Harry's ear, lightly stirring the too-long hair around his ears and nape. 

"For actually, really, trying to understand. Everyone: Ron, Hermione and even Neville start to look afraid when I tell them what I'm really thinking. 

"Sometimes, they don't seem real to me, you know? They're all soft lines, and smudged angles. Not Neville so much. Of all of my friends, I think he's the only one who even comes close to having suffered as much as I have. I wish I was brave as he is." 

Draco tightened his arms at the pain he heard in Harry's voice. "Longbottom? He's terrified of everything." 

Harry pulled away to meet his eyes, but did not unclasp his arms. "Being brave doesn't mean not being afraid. It means being able to face what you're afraid of; to be able to face the things that have caused you pain. If you think of it that way, I've never met anyone braver then Neville. After all, after seven years he still faces Snape everyday, whether it's in class of in hallways. He was the willing to help me rescue Sirius too, even though there was a chance he would run in Voldemort there. I've met very few people as brave or as real as Neville." 

"Real?" He'd taken to stroking the back of Harry's neck lightly with just the tips of his fingers. It seemed to calm the other boy, as all these pain-ridden thoughts poured from his lips. 

"Yeah. People like you and Neville; you're sharp, focused… real. It's hard to explain. People who've had hard lives are deeper, more… I don't know. I don't think of all the people around me who are afraid of this war and are unwilling to do anything about it themselves, as real. They've never known enough pain to be really afraid. I'm not explaining myself well at all." Harry's face contorted as he struggled to think of the words he needed to express his views. 

Each of Harry's words was striking strange chords inside his chest. The notes it wrought were painful, as though the chords were struggling to produce deep, sorrowful notes that were on the very edge of their capability. 

"You mean people who haven't experienced a similar amount of pain to what you've suffered don't seem real to you, relatively speaking." 

Surprise dawned on Harry's face. "Yes, that's it, exactly." Draco felt his lips twist into a lopsided smile. 

"You know, right now I almost feel braver then Neville." 

Draco's eyebrows drew together in confusion as he regarded Harry's strangely blank expression. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

Harry smiled a tiny smile, though it quivered and nearly faltered. "This." He gestured to himself and Draco. "This terrifies me." 

~*~*~*~   
Notes: 

(1) This is quoted from the last line of the preface to "A Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde 

(2) Edgar Allen Poe; written with "The Raven" and "Spirit's Invocation" in mind. 

(3) Lewis Carrol; "Through the Looking Glass", AKA " Alice in Wonderland" 

(4) W. B. Yeats; written with "Second Coming", and "Sailing to Byzantinium" in mind. 


	6. True Faith 06

Title: True Faith (01/??)  
Author: Nicky Townsend (nicky@sacramentoanime.com)   
Pairings: HP/DM  
Rating/Warnings: I'm going to say R with leanings towards NC-17. Rating for sexual situations, attempted suicide, and (with the suicide attempt only) a great deal of romanticizing about blood and death. The sort of thing that inspires bad Goth poetry, I'm afraid. Oh- if you haven't noticed, this is SLASH. If you aren't here for young, hot boy-on-boy action, I suggest you run while you still can. Flames will be saved to light my cigarettes.   
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. All songs quoted are the property of the various artists that wrote them, and are used without permission. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All music quoted is the property of those with the talent to write it; which wouldn't be me.   
Summary: Draco's attempted suicide brings about many things- some good, some bad, and some very bad. He's forced to see the world in a different way, and to try to cope with what he sees.

~*~*~*~  
True Faith 06  
~*~*~*~  
"And you don't seem the lying kind,  
A shame that I can read your mind,  
And all the fears that I read there,  
Candlelight smile that we both share,  
And you know I don't mean to hurt you,  
But you know that it means so much,  
And you don't even feel a thing,  
I am falling, I am fading, I am drowning,  
Help me to breath,  
I am hurting, I have lost it all, I am losing,  
Help me to breath."

Boa, "Duvet"  
~*~*~*~  
  
The fragile feeling of happiness had not returned, but instead had been replaced with a strange kind of contentment. An understanding of sorts had been reached between them, although exactly what that understanding meant, Draco couldn't say. There was a feeling of intangibility, almost like when you see someone in a crowd and you KNOW you've seen them before, but you can't remember quite where, and their name is just on the tip of your tongue, like the tiny grains of a handful of sand slowly sifting through your fingers to be blown away in the wind.  
  
It wasn't the relationship itself that felt intangible, but the emotion that was governing the very nature of it.  
  
They had hardly spoken since they had left the Room of Requirement and, strangely enough, Harry had insisted on walking him back to the Slytherin Common Room. They trailed through the deserted hallways, the weak winter sunlight filtering feebly through the thick lead-paned windows. They filed down the many flights of stairs leading down into the dungeons, and many a curious passerby eyed them with utter disbelief. Sometimes Draco caught fragments of the whispers in passing:  
  
"Did I just see what I think I saw?"  
  
"I was about to ask you the same thing!"  
  
Draco wasn't sure if he should smirk or be insulted by the exchange. Yes, they'd disliked each other, but people could change. Was that so hard to accept? What would the reaction be when they were seen together more often? On the other hand, it was a very sudden change, wasn't it?  
  
The walk to the Common Room seemed much shorter then it really was. One last flight of stairs and the passages narrowed; the walls oozed dark water, and moss coated the stone blocks from which the tunnels were constructed. The dungeon passageways wove back and forth like a maze as they burrowed more deeply under the hillside that Hogwarts was constructed upon. They turned the last corner and into the hallway that led to the blank, mold-encrusted slab of wall that was the hidden doorway into the Slytherin Common Room.   
  
"Honestly, did you hear what that pair said? I, for one, am insulted- !" Draco had spun on the balls of his feet and had started to walk backward, so he could look at Harry as he spoke to him. He only just saw Harry's eyes widen in shock and then harden, before he found himself shoved to the uneven stone floor, and a blast of malevolent light passed over his head.  
  
He very clearly saw the light strike Harry directly in the center of his chest, and briefly highlight his facial features as the blow struck home. The magic's momentum momentarily blew Harry's hair away from his face, and made the lenses of his spectacles seem to glow eerily.  
  
Time seemed to halt for just a second, before Harry's face crumpled in agony, and in that second Draco knew exactly what it was that had hit him. Though he'd never seen the effect of the spell first-hand before, he knew what would happen. The jaw would clench, and the nerve endings would spasm, causing all the muscles in the body to contract tightly across the bones, forcing the person to curl up into a fetal ball, shuddering in uncontrollable agony until the spell was released.  
  
Harry sunk to his knees and growled fiercely through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut in torment. It was then that Draco realized that either the spell had gone awry, or it couldn't be what he'd thought it was, because Harry was not curling up. Harry was rising to his feet again, jaw set in determination and not pain, as he spread his limbs wide as if to stretch them out. He twisted his head sharply to one side and then the other, a resounded pop echoing from the protesting vertebrae each time. Likewise were his fists clenched and then shaken out, each shoulder rolled and each elbow twisted, and each knee bent awkwardly inward, each movement followed by the snap and pop of abused joints.   
  
Harry then composed his limbs again, opened his eyes and looked down to where Draco had risen to a crouch on the dungeon floor. "Alright there?" Harry queried, offering Draco a hand up. In shock, Draco allowed himself to be hauled to his feet again.   
  
"What the bloody fuck was that?" Draco wasn't sure what he was referring to, since he knew perfectly well what had happened. Something moved on the very edge of Draco's sight and he followed it, and found himself looking Harry right in the eyes. "Holy Merlin." Harry's eyes. They were... leaking. A greenish fire seemed to be bleeding off his eyes, and dissipating in mid-air. "Your eyes… What IS that?" Any other words he might have spoken died on his lips. Draco could hear his voice trembling, sounding like a terrified child, as he reached forward to touch Harry's face.  
  
"This?" Harry pointed to his eyes with one hand, the other batting Draco's fingers away as still more green fire wafted off his irises. "Nothing. I'm fine. I'm sorry, but… I can't tell you what it is. Please… don't be afraid of me." 

Harry reached out, perhaps to clasp his hand, but against his will Draco found his body shrinking away. There was something infinitely disturbing about Harry's glowing eyes; he didn't know what it was exactly, only that it was… power… in a very raw form. One thing Draco had learned in recent years is that power equaled pain. People who had power had responsibility, and in turn, pain, both their own and what they caused others. The two went hand in hard. He'd seen what power could do to people. Draco wanted nothing to do with such things, nor was he ashamed any longer to admit that he was afraid of it.

He saw the pain in Harry's eyes at his reaction and a feeling almost like guilt coalesced in his chest. Was it possible to feel sorry for someone, yet to be terrified of them in the same instant? 

Am I really scared of Harry? The thought shot home with remarkable accuracy. Yes, I am. I do not understand, and so I am afraid. Draco watched an unnamed emotion in Harry's eyes flicker and die. The guilt teeming in his chest solidified. 

Perhaps… if I try to understand, perhaps if he explains… I will not be afraid. Deliberately Draco forced himself to relax, and turn back towards Harry. Sliding one hand around the other boy's waist, he forced himself to meet Harry's eyes, though they were still bleeding the ethereal green fire. With a deep sigh, Harry placed a hand on either side of his face, and pulled him forward into a kiss. It was gentle and warm, and a shudder danced the length of Draco's spine on feathered feet. Slowly he relaxed against Harry, wrapping his other arm around his waist. Then, very quietly and very clearly, Harry spoke against his lips, and Draco felt his guilt transform into sorrow in a brilliant flash of green fire.  
  
"Obliviate."  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
It was perhaps the most difficult decision Harry had ever had to make, and yet it was clearly the only avenue open to him. Draco could not be allowed to know. Not yet, at any rate. At the moment no one knew, except the Headmaster himself, and the Headmaster had been very, very adamant that it was to stay that way. No matter what. Not one of his friends knew, nor anyone in the Order. Especially not Snape; his position was tenuous enough without having to worry about revealing the Order's secret weapon if his cover were blown.   
  
This was something else in which Harry was totally alone, yet another burden that he and he alone had to bear. He'd thought he'd be used to it by now, but this had hurt him terribly. Not just that he'd had to do it, but that Draco had been afraid of him. He'd expected Draco to be used to all the trappings of power; it's not like Harry had wanted this. But then, people always feared what they didn't understand, didn't they? Perhaps if he'd been able to tell Draco about it, he wouldn't have been terrified when he saw it first-hand.  
  
Perhaps... perhaps, he wouldn't have obeyed the Headmaster if Draco hadn't reacted the way he had. Maybe then, some of this loneliness would be alleviated. If he could just tell someone... 

This was nonsense. He had to pull himself together. Any second now, someone would come crashing in here because the wards had been set off. Harry pulled away from him, breaking the kiss and watched as Draco's eyes refocused.  
  
Immediately, Draco pressed a palm to his temple, and blinked a few times, his pale blond eyelashes fluttering very quickly, like the wings of a butterfly. Harry put his hands on his shoulders to steady him.  
  
"What... What just happened?" Draco began haltingly.  
  
"Sssh. Someone tried to attack us. I shunted us out of the way just in time. Did you see who it was?" A dark, dull pain settled at the base of Harry's sternum as the embellishment left his mouth.  
  
"No... I didn't. We were attacked? Strange... I can't remember it at all..." Harry wrapped his arm around Draco's waist when he wavered on his feet.   
  
"Maybe you hit your head? Alright there?" Each word that fell from Harry's lips felt like acid, siphoning up from the dark well of pain that had settled in his chest. He'd lied to people he cared about for their own good before, but it hadn't hurt like this. This felt as though there were a cancerous lesion forming on his heart.  
  
It was at that exact moment that Snape came careening around the corner from the far end of the hallway running full-tilt, his black robes streaming out behind him like wings, before skidding to a halt a few paces away. He paused for a moment to push the lank black hair out of his equally black eyes, chest heaving from his sprint. Several deep breaths later, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Potter. I should have known you'd be at the center of the trouble. Would you be so kind as to explain to me why the castle's wards are howling with the gusto of a menstruating banshee?"  
  
Harry opened his mouth to answer, and was surprised when Draco beat him to it. "Someone attacked us, Professor. We didn't see who it was; it happened too fast."  
  
Snape's depthless obsidian eyes darted between them, weighing the truth of Draco's words. "Headmaster's Office," he said finally. "NOW."   
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Blaise had absolutely no idea what just happened. She'd cast Cruciatus to hit Draco, but Potter had pushed him out of the way, and let it hit him instead. That part was obvious. It was what happened after that she couldn't figure out.   
  
She'd seen the curse hit him dead on. He'd seemed to feel it only for a second, and then he was stretching out his body like he had just finished a rough game on the Quidditch Pitch, his joints popping like popcorn. Was he able to shrug Cruciatus off too? Was that possible? She knew he could throw of Imperius, but the spells were vastly different.  
  
Maybe she wasn't strong enough to curse the likes of Harry Potter? Her training had been coming along well, she knew- the Muggles she'd been given to practice on had crumpled like tin cans under her magic before. So… was it her magic... or was it Harry Potter?   
  
She'd glanced around the corner once again to get another look- Draco had looked absolutely terrified of Potter: the whites of his pale eyes were gleaming in the meager torch light and he had said something then about Potter's eyes. She could see it perfectly well from where she was.  
  
Potter's eyes were glowing bright, acid green, as though someone had lit them from behind. Draco had recoiled at Potter's initial touch- though after a moment he seemed to force himself to accept it. Potter had then taken Draco's face in his hands and kissed him, green fire leaking out from their lips where they were sealed together. From somewhere down the corridor she heard a door bang open, and the quiet padding of a light-footed man sprinting in her direction.   
  
She ducked into a nearby alcove, and stuffed herself behind a statue, just in time to hear Professor Snape come flying down the corridor from the opposite direction at top-speed as if his robes were on fire.  
  
She knew she'd seen something significant. It was a matter of finding out what the significance was, and making sure the right people knew about it. Come to think of it, she hadn't owled home in a while; perhaps it was time she did.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Harry had spent so much time in this office lately he was no longer impressed by all the things it held. There was always something new in the pile, at which he would glance briefly, poke at a few times, and then get on with why he was here in the first place. He was never here without a reason.  
  
This had quite possibly been one of the longest Sundays he could remember having in a very long time. More had happened to him in the last few hours then in the past months since school started, combined. It didn't particularly help that he'd been up incredibly late last night at the party- he was operating on five or so hours sleep.  
  
'Note to self:', he thought wryly; 'Remind all wildly chaotic events to schedule themselves on alternate days.' Things had been so peaceful until recently. Of course, it couldn't last.  
  
He listened as Draco parroted back to the Headmaster the altered version of the attack that Harry had fed him, while Snape haunted the back of the room. He knew the Headmaster knew that something was amiss with Draco's story- Harry detected the knowing glint that the Headmaster could sometimes get from behind the mask of jovial facial features and the shield of his half-moon spectacles.  
  
It was no time at all before the Headmaster was dismissing them though he gestured for Harry to stay; Snape ushered Draco out of the office, all the while looking curiously at Harry, his black eyes narrowed- perhaps he was wondering why Harry hadn't had anything to contribute to Draco's account of the events that had taken place. Draco didn't know that bit had only been for looks. As a matter of fact, neither did Snape, though it was obvious he suspected something.  
  
The grinding of the stone spiral stair descending spoke of safety from outside ears. Immediately, the Headmaster cut to the chase, his pale blue eyes suddenly sharp in his otherwise calm face. "And what really happened, if you please?"  
  
Harry had sunk down low in the luridly purple upholstered armchair that rested serenely in front of the Headmaster's desk. One ankle was propped up on his knee, one wrist resting on top of that. He ran the thumb of his other hand over the sandpaper-like stubble on his jaw. "Well," he began, "Someone did attack. But it wasn't us, or even me; they attacked him. I pushed Draco out of the way."  
  
"So there wasn't time to dodge, and the blast hit you instead, forcing you to absorb the energy, am I correct?" Harry nodded affirmative to the apt assessment. The Headmaster steepled his hands in front of his long crooked nose and tilted his head to one side, as he did when he was deep in thought, or worrying about something; at this moment, it was both.

"Does Draco know about the Fire?"  
  
"No sir, I used the excess to Obliviate him. There's another problem now."  
  
The Headmaster inclined his head in agreement. "Yes- whoever attacked you will have seen the Fire. What were you attacked with?"  
  
"Cruciatus. It was fairly weak. Someone wants him to suffer. He's going to have a lot of enemies after the stunt he pulled in the Great Hall. "  
  
"Oh? I hadn't heard." The polite disinterest in the Headmaster's tone was a lie. It was carefully designed to say that he knew what happened, but wanted to hear a different point of view. Harry knew this from carefully observing the Headmaster over his years at Hogwarts. Humoring him normally yielded extra information of some kind, so humor him Harry would.

"Draco and I are seeing each other. He… kissed me in the Great Hall today."

"That was very foolish of him. I approve wholeheartedly, but it was still foolish. It made you happy, didn't it?"

"Yes. He did it to convince my friends. "

One corner of the Headmaster's mouth crooked in a lopsided smile. "That was a very Gryffindor thing to do- don't tell him I said that."

Harry felt an answering grin twist his own mouth. "I wouldn't dream of it, sir."

The Headmaster arched an eyebrow at that before continuing. "On the other hand, there's not much we can do since you didn't see who attacked you. You'll just have to keep your head down, and your ears open, and hope that the student either doesn't know what they saw or doesn't tell anyone else. You may go back to your dorm, Harry."

The command was spoken so that there could be no confusion. If there was any chance that the student might still be about it wasn't worth taking. Harry knew he wasn't going to be of any use if he was dead. 

"Yes, sir." 

~*~*~*~

Professor Snape had shortened his steps and was attempting to keep pace with his shorter stride. Draco didn't think he'd ever seen the Professor so openly worried before- normally he was off and gone by this time. At least he wasn't casting worried glances his way- that would have been the Snape equivalent of asking if he needed a hug.

As it was, Draco was beginning to become irritated, though he knew he couldn't say anything. He wanted desperately to know what Harry was talking to the Headmaster about, and if it concerned the attack, why couldn't he be there? Why couldn't Snape be there? He was a teacher, and had been the one to find them. Certainly, there couldn't be anything they were hiding about the incident…

His sight blurred out, and then refocused with sudden sharpness. Blinking in the suddenly harsh-seeming light, Draco realized that he was on his hands and knees on the floor, and Snape was looking at him sharply through narrowed eyes. He found one of those long pale hands extended to him, and the Professor gruffly hauled him to his feet.

"Draco, are you unwell?"

"I'm not sure. Harry said he thought I may have hit my head."

Yet again, the Professor's eyes narrowed. "Why haven't you said anything about it? Come on then, to the infirmary with you."

And so it came to be that Draco found himself sitting on an infirmary bed, while Madame Pomfrey examined his skull for bumps. 

Gentle fingers prodded around his scalp, delicately testing for anything abnormal. Draco watched curiously as Madame Pomfrey went about her examination and her gently lined face twisted in concentration. She placed her hands on either side of his jaw, lifting and tilting his head back, peering intently into his eyes checking his pupils for abnormality. She "hmmm"-ed a few times before stepping away.

"Well?" Snape inquired, seeming to melt forward out of a non-existent shadow. 

Madame Pomfrey shook her head. "There's nothing wrong with him, physically. Perhaps a bit anemic still, but that's to be expected."

"No concussion?" Draco realized with a small shock that Professor Snape did not sound surprised that he didn't have a concussion, and in fact seemed to be expecting that answer. 

"Right as rain. You may take him back now, if you like, Severus." Madame Pomfrey gestured benevolently to Draco.

"My thanks, Poppy." Snape replied inclining his head, before putting a hand on Draco's shoulder and half-steering, half-pushing him along the long rows of blinding white infirmary beds. Snape's hand did not leave his shoulder during the entire trip back to the dungeons.

He was not steered into the common room as he expected, but pulled into the Professor's office. One of those suspiciously delicate long-fingered hands guided him into the chair across from the desk with surprising strength. 

Something intangible was hanging just on the very edge of Draco's brain. He could feel the tendrils of the thought creeping in, and trying to gain a foothold. It flickered just on the edge of recollection; just enough that he knew it was there, but every time he mentally turned to look at it, it disappeared. It was like the thought was deliberately hiding from him. The Professor's mellifluous brought him out of his uneasy reverie. 

"Tell me what you remember about the attack." Snape had leaned forward, resting his elbows on the dark wood of his desk, his hands folded just under his chin. Inky black strands of hair escaped from the confinement of being pushed behind his ear, to dangle in front of his recondite black eyes. This cast shadows that were vaguely disturbing across the enigmatic Potion Master's sharp features.

"You heard everything I told Headmaster Dumbledore." Draco replied, somewhat exasperated at being cross-examined. 

"Yes, but what do you actually remember?" The Professor's normally harmonious voice had acquired a discordantly sharp edge Draco had never detected before.

Draco frowned, his fine-drawn brows pulled together in concentration. Harry had insisted on walking him back to the Slytherin Common Room, they'd passed the two gossiping females as they had turned onto the stairs leading into the dungeon. Once at the bottom, he'd turned to say something to Harry, and then… The next thing he could remember was Harry kissing him and asking if he was alright. Of the actual attack itself, there was nothing.

Maybe he had hit his head, and Madame Pomfrey just… missed it? That was highly unlikely. Perhaps the attack spell had hit him, and that was why he couldn't remember? But Harry had said he'd gotten them out of the way. Maybe it just happened that fast?

"You can't remember anything about it, can you?" That discordant note was still there. "Surely, you realize why."

"Surely you can not be implying that… Harry…" No way. That was simply not possible. Surely, there was no reason for…

"That is exactly what I am implying, because that is what all the evidence points to."

Draco pressed his eyes closed against the nameless dread welling up inside him. He found that he was slowly shaking his head, his brain supplying thousands of reason why that simply couldn't be. No. That wasn't Harry. Harry Potter simply did not do things like that.

For the first time since he'd started at Hogwarts he found himself doubting his Head of House, and remembering exactly who Professor Snape's real master was. He'd seen the Professor during a Summoning last year; his face had contorted and he grasped his left forearm in a vice-like grip. Draco could see the Mark itself in his mind's eye rising black and putrescent to the surface of deathly-pale skin. He had been aware of its presence, of course; however, that memory made Draco painfully aware of something he'd neglected to consider before.

His Professor, whom he had always trusted unfailingly, who had always favored him above all his other students, was no longer on his side. He was a close friend of the revolting madman that had unfortunately sired him, both of whom were slaves to that feverishly whispered of horror that he'd flatly refused to serve. No, he could not believe the lies that were falling like candied strychnine from the lips of the pernicious being in front of him. Harry was all he had left, the only one he could trust.

Draco found that he was no longer sitting down, and that he was slowly backing away from his teacher. Why hadn't he thought of this before? The rough surface of the ancient door was now pressed against his back and he fumbled for the heavy iron latch that held the medieval wooden monstrosity closed. He knew he was only escaping because he was being allowed to, but even his state of general panic didn't stop him from noticing the flash of emotion that had briefly contorted the face of the Potions Master.

Draco swiftly closed the heavy door behind him, realizing he had seen the expression on the Professor's face recently on someone else, though he couldn't place where. The emotion the expression had revealed was the supreme sorrow and hurt of one realizing that someone who you care for no longer trusts you and is afraid of you.

Where had he seen that before? 

~*~*~*~

Harry hurried back to the Gryffindor common room, for once having no desire to sidetrack to anywhere else. It was with thinly veiled relief that he approached the Fat Lady, and spoke the password. 

"Gobbledygook." He said hastily. 

The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow at him, and replied with insulted indifference, "Indeed?" before swinging open to allow him entrance.

He felt his muscles unwind a bit at being back on familiar ground. The red and gold décor greeted him like a welcome friend, the aged and well-loved old couches a sight for sore eyes. Hermione was seated on the floor in front of one of the couches, books arrayed all over the low table on which she was doing her schoolwork. Dean and Ginny were sprawled comfortably on the couch behind her, while Ron occupied an armchair immediately to their left. He was sitting in it crooked, just as he always did- his back was actually pressed against the seat of the chair, one armrest pillowing his head, his rear pressed tightly against the opposite armrest with his long legs bent and dangling over it. 

Ron scowled and flushed when he noticed Harry's entrance, as Harry made his way over to sit on the floor opposite Hermione on the other side of the table. Dean and Ginny greeted him as they always did, which made Harry strangely happy.

Hermione, on the other hand, had her eyebrows knitted together in concern. "Where have you been! I was worried when you didn't come in for dinner. Have you been with Draco this whole time?"

Harry tried to smile like anyone would when they had spent the whole day with their new boyfriend. "Yeah." Was all he said, and the only smile he could manage was the slightest lopsided twist to his lips.

"You prefer his company to ours, do you?" Ron said gruffly, though there was no anger in his voice. Harry's smile widened a trifle. Ron was pouting.

Rolling his eyes, Harry turned to Ron. "Don't start with me. Remember when you were dating Susan? We never saw you except in class." The reminder caused Ron to flush a bit, while everyone else had a chuckle at his expense.

Maybe it was the comfort of being back in the common room surrounded by his friends, but Harry was suddenly incredibly tired. He folded his arms in front of him on the table and rested his head there, closing his eyes. When he stayed silent for many minutes, he felt Hermione's soft hand on his shoulder. 

"Harry… are you all right?" Concern laced her voice as she spoke.

He shifted so that it was his chin resting on his forearms, and said carefully, "I've had a very emotional day. Draco has as many issues as I do." He heard Ron snort, as if to imply that was scarcely possible. 

Hermione arched an eyebrow at that, but said only "What a pair you two make."

His tone thoughtful, Harry added "I wonder if he realizes what he's got himself into, though." Hermione's eyebrows immediately knitted themselves back together, though it was Ron who spoke next.

"What are you on about, mate?"

"Well think about it," Harry started, sitting back up. "He's just switched sides in about the most defiant matter he could manage, and he's flaunting it in front of the entire school. It doesn't bother me that he wants to be open- what worries me is how his housemates are going to take it."

Hermione's worried expression softened. "He's a prefect, Harry. He's got a private room, which he has most certainly warded." 

"And besides," Ron picked up, "The Git's just down the hall from him."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Have you forgotten? Draco doesn't KNOW about that. Thinks he's on the other side of the fence, you know."

"Draco's his pet." Hermione interjected with the disdain of… a student who thought SHE ought to be the pet. "I'm sure he'll tell him."

Harry looked skeptically at Hermione, but didn't answer. 

~*~*~*~

Severus Snape couldn't identify the feeling that seemed to be twisting his chest into knots.

He'd been looked at in many different ways over the years, and thought he had fairly well trained himself to ignore them. The range of disgust and fear he gotten from the populace at large, but especially his students, had ceased to move him years ago.

He had been so angry with Draco for being so blind as to not see what had been done to him. Any fool with more of a brain the Neville Longbottom… Colin Creevey, he amended grudgingly. Longbottom had grown a spine, and didn't regularly melt cauldrons anymore. 

Anyway: that was entirely beside the point.

Any fool with more then HALF a brain, should have realized what had happened to them. Especially Draco Malfoy, who had received, he'd been assured, a remarkable and thorough training in the Dark Arts from Lucius. 

"Lucius." He allowed himself the luxury of spitting into the wastebasket. He stared at it for a moment, before realizing what he'd done. Logical train of thought took over, and in the next instant he was pointing his wand at it, and muttered a quick "Incendio." The wastebasket caught flame instantly and burned quickly to nothing. He couldn't believe how careless he'd nearly been- he knew very well all the things that could be made or done with such a large specimen.

Paranoia was an art that he had cultivated with good reason over the years. Was anybody to search his rooms, his lab, or his classroom they would not find so much as a skin cell, let alone a stray hair or a nail clipping. The casual onlooker would divine that he was greasy; he let them believe this because it kept them AWAY. In reality his hair was washed and brushed quite vigorously twice a day to remove any strands he may have shed before applying the potion to his hair that glued the black locks together. Likewise did his soap contain a mild acid, which removed the top layer of his skin before it could be shed. He was NOT greasy, nor was he dirty; it would be nearly impossible to be any cleaner or well-groomed. 

But he knew that he was not being paranoid in his conclusion that Draco had had a piece of his memory wiped, for there was no other explanation. He had tried to tell the boy this, and… Draco had denied it, and refused to believe him. He'd watched with morbid fascination as something very akin to fear had stole over the boy's pale elfin-delicate features. Denial had been clear in the way the way he'd shaken his head, first slowly and then with more vehemence as he'd convinced himself that he was correct and his teacher was wrong. Then the fear had solidified, and taken over his face before the pale boy had bolted in near-panic. 

What had he… Oh. How could he have forgotten? It really wasn't like him to overlook something so obvious. The boy didn't know. Which, he reflected, was both good and bad.

Good, because Potter could actually be trusted to not blurt out secrets when he knew the cost was lives. That lesson had been learned the hard way, hadn't it? Boys of that sort always had to learn the hard way. Of that sort. Then he was of that sort himself, as he'd also had to learn the hard way. He didn't like thinking he had ANYTHING in common with Potter, so he let that train of thought derail.

It was good also because Draco needed to stay far away from anyone having any association with the Dark Lord, including himself. He was aware, even if Draco was not, of the sick fascination that the Dark Lord had developed for the boy when he was still revoltingly young. There were some things that Severus could not even make a show of tolerating, and THAT was one of them. Knowing that the Dark Lord was still… equipped… was far more information then Severus had ever wanted. The boy was hardly a year old when the Dark Lord had started saying how lovely the boy would be as grew older. He also realized that it was only a matter of time before he was Summoned and instructed to retrieve Draco for him by any means possible, up to and including Imperius. He would have to come up with a very good excuse to tactfully deny the Dark Lord his plaything, and even still he fully expected that no matter what his excuse Cruciatus would be the result. Still; pain was better then death. Although this was debatable. 

He couldn't help but grin in ill-concealed malicious glee when he though of what had been done to Lucius when their Lord had found out he'd let Draco go. He did not feel bad about wishing horrors upon Malfoy Sr.- the bastard deserved everything he got. The only people he could feel the least bit bad about wishing things on were people who were unable to defend themselves, and Lucius did not fall into this category for a second.

Had the Dark Lord not been temporarily indisposed, how old would Draco have been before he'd taken the boy for his use? Fourteen? Twelve? Younger? Would he have prevented the boy from going to school, and kept him in a cage in his lair?

At the same time, Draco believing the worst of him was equally unfavorable… but Severus had to admit to himself that his reasons for thinking so were purely selfish. The boy was intelligent, and resourceful, as well as being a good student. The boy had trusted him, maybe even, he fancied, looked up to him a bit. Severus didn't have a fatherly bone, or even a bit of cartilage, in his whole body but… if he WERE, by some strange quirk of fate, REQUIRED to sire an issue, he hoped that the boy would be something like Draco.

The situation was also unfavorable because Draco no longer trusted Severus enough to believe him when he had tired to explain that his new boyfriend, Harry Potter, or all bloody people, had Obliviated him.

This brought Severus around to another problem: Why? After Severus had arrived on the scene, the Potter boy had seemed affectionate toward Draco, yet… sad. What had Draco seen during this attack that he couldn't be allowed to remember? Who had attacked them and why? The answer to that last question was fairly obvious- Draco had turned Traitor to his house, and to the Dark Lord, though the latter was not widely known. This had only come to the notice of the general population of the school earlier today, according to what had been reported to him by Miss Parkinson.

Miss Parkinson. There was a thought. He didn't think it was the girl herself; she didn't have the stomach for pain, torture, or death. However she was the jilted fiancée- perhaps someone close to her had orchestrated the event.

He didn't know the details of why Draco had gone and gotten himself disowned, though it was entirely for the best in his opinion. The less simpering servants the Dark Lord had the easier his job was. Not that he'd describe his job as easy. Either of them, for that matter. Perhaps… Yes, perhaps, though idea appalled him, it seemed to be the only course. He would have to speak to Potter alone.


End file.
